


Flower Language

by avocadomoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Eve, F/M, Family, Grief, Mutual Pining, Post-War, Sirius Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadomoon/pseuds/avocadomoon
Summary: Christmas at Grimmauld Place, 2004. (Moving on, getting over, decking the halls, getting what you want, et cetera. Hermione's learning how to do all of the above.)
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 39
Kudos: 209
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	Flower Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).



It was tradition to have Christmas holiday at Grimmauld Place, something that Hermione knew bothered Molly Weasley immensely, but since she usually got all the birthdays, Sirius was comfortable keeping a solid hold on Christmas. Everyone teased him all the time about the ongoing feud ("Don't call it a feud!") between the two, which only seemed to increase in both vehemence and pettiness as the years went by. Many times, Hermione had endured lunches and brunches and birthday dinners at the Burrow with Molly's ongoing commentary on Sirius's latest slight against her - oh, the bottle of wine he brought to Easter dinner was cheap! The thank you note for his birthday present was too short! He'd made a face when tasting her almond pastry last week! - and it was getting to the point that nobody even really remembered anymore why they started disliking each other so much in the first place.

To his credit, Sirius seemed like he was genuinely trying to get along. He was polite whenever he attended the various dinners and functions and celebrations at the Burrow, he always brought a gift, he sent thank you notes on time (even Ginny, who usually could interpret her mother's ire the best, was perplexed as to what Molly had found so offensive about Sirius's letter last fall) and most importantly, he didn't curse in the house, which everyone knew was the reason behind the Great Screaming Match of 2001. Not that Hermione really thought "shite" was really a word worthy of such anger, but - well, it _was_ Molly's house. She supposed she did have a little bit of a point, even if it was a wild overreaction.

Secretly, in her heart of hearts, Hermione thought the real reason Molly disliked him so much was because she resented the fact that he'd survived the Siege of Hogwarts, and Fred hadn't. She didn't like thinking such a thing about Mrs. Weasley, but something in the way Sirius acted in response to Molly's unreasonable irritation - almost apologetic, certainly deferential - made her think he thought the same thing. (He was definitely right about one thing - it wasn't a feud. A one-sided one, at best, but the word Hermione privately thought was more accurate was "grudge.")

Still, he wasn't giving up Christmas. "And miss out on the only week out of the year my godson stands still in the same place? Never," he joked. "Where is he now, anyway? Last owl I got from him, he said Norway, but that was almost two weeks ago."

"I've got you beat then," Hermione said, "he sent me a letter three days ago. A little rural village in Belize. He and Luna are helping a friend of her father's; his house was damaged in a hurricane recently."

"Lovely," Sirius said. "I was in Belize once."

"For how long?"

"Just a few nights. Spent some time with a family in Punta Gorda. The mother was a volunteer at an animal shelter, she found me at the port and took me home." Sirius grinned at her. "She thought I was handsome."

"Was it the offensively loud barking, or the smelly, tangled fur that won her over?" Hermione shot back. Sirius's grin didn't falter. "Personally, my favorite thing about Padfoot is the muddy pawprints. Really makes me feel like my home is being _invaded._ A rare experience nowadays."

"I didn't invade your home!" Sirius said, spreading his arms out wide. Her kitchen was so small his hands brushed the counter from the dining table. "You invited me!"

"It's the principle of the thing," Hermione said, tapping his cup with her wand to warm it. He never drank more than one cup of coffee - lots of sugar, but no milk - but he would linger over it for hours, and for whatever stubborn, absentminded reason, he always forgot that it had grown cold until he took a drink, and then he'd always grimace dramatically and complain. It was all such a comical, well-worn routine that Hermione finally just appointed herself the official guardian of his coffee temperature, cutting off the inevitable back and forth before it even started. He thanked her with a tip of his head, and then took a drink so fast he scalded his tongue. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Was that during that year you were on the run? Or after?"

Sirius had spent several years traveling after the war, while Harry blazed spectacularly through the Auror training (and then burning out of it just as quickly, which had surprised everyone but those who actually knew him) and Hermione took a similarly fast-paced path through a Muggle history degree at Oxford. "After," Sirius said. "Just before I came back."

"I thought you were in Canada, just before?"

"Ah, no. I told the Ministry that because technically speaking, international Floo is blocked to South America," Sirius said. "Some diplomatic - or undiplomatic, I should think - incident with the Wizarding Collective that regulates the magic schools over there. But they can't trace your origin fireplace, you see. Just outgoing. So plenty of people do it, you just mark down Canada or America on your paperwork, and hardly anyone cares enough to confirm it."

Hermione thought of those little cards they made you fill out on Muggle airplanes, which had always seemed comically ineffective to Hermione. A person could smuggle an entire vegetable garden over any number of international borders in their suitcase, and how would they know? All they'd have to do was check the right boxes on the paperwork. It's not as if they went through every single bag. "Sounds like the Ministry. Stupid rules with stupid histories, that nobody bothers to enforce until they have a stupid reason."

Sirius tilted his head back and laughed. "You do have a way with words, my girl."

Hermione did not want to blush at the affectionate phrase, but she always did. To his credit, Sirius never mentioned it. Or teased her about it. (And he ignored it when other people did, which Hermione thought, with a certain forlorn resignation, was also very kind of him.)

"I'm going to need your help with dinner, you know," Sirius said.

"Just because I'm Muggleborn doesn't mean I know how to cook," Hermione said archly.

"No. But your mother sent me your grandmother's goody recipe and she made me swear I'd make you help me."

"You owl with my mother?" Hermione asked. She narrowed her eyes at him. "And she sent you Nana's _goody recipe_?" A family secret. Hermione herself hadn't even been privy to the exact mix of spices she used until she was nearly nineteen.

Sirius shrugged. "Thought we'd make it for Christmas breakfast." He didn't comment on his correspondence with her mother, and Hermione knew he'd only get more stubborn about it if she pushed, if the small grin on his face was any indication. "You know, I have family in Ireland too. A second cousin or something. Married a Veela and got blasted off the family tree in the fifties."

"So you're telling me you have some half-Veela relatives floating around somewhere?"

"If they're still alive, I hardly think they'd be willing to step forward to claim my last name," Sirius said with a laugh. "Especially now that most of the money's gone. But I did visit him once, when I was younger, before he disappeared. Went into hiding, most likely, with his wife. They didn't have children at the time, but they might have had some later on. Haven't heard anything from him since Azkaban, but I suppose that makes sense."

Sirius had received an official pardon from Kingsley in the aftermath of the war, but with everything else that'd been going on at the time, the news had understandably fallen through the cracks a bit. Sirius very much enjoyed popping up on Diagon Alley on busy shopping days and scaring the piss out of unsuspecting crowds of schoolchildren. He'd had the Aurors called on him multiple times, and he enjoyed taking the piss out of them, too.

"My grandmother was raised in Cork," Hermione said. "But when she had my mum, they moved to London to find work. My grandfather was a Greek soldier who went AWOL from his unit. He was fighting in France, I believe, before he ran off." Hermione paused, thinking sadly of her Nana, who'd always been generous and open with stories about her long-gone grandfather, but far more reticent when it came to talking about herself. "It was all very romantic, or at least I thought so when I was a little girl. He was working in a pub when they met, using a fake name, all of that. Whirlwind romance. She always made it sound very exciting."

"Kind of skipped over the part where he left her high and dry, eh," Sirius said.

"Well," Hermione replied, "yes. But I figured that part out later." She had only one photo of her grandfather, a picture from a military ID that he'd left behind in Ireland when he disappeared. Hermione looked very much like him. In her darker moments, during the war, she'd felt an affinity with her mysterious ancestor that often made her uncomfortable. She'd certainly thought about going AWOL herself enough times, even though it made her feel rotten to even consider it.

"I can sort of see it in your face," Sirius said thoughtfully, tilting his head and sweeping his eyes over her face and neck. Hermione felt herself blush again and stubbornly kept her expression neutral, determined not to react. "Your tan gets so dark in the summers. No wonder you have Greek ancestry."

"Well, my father was as British as it gets. Blonde and pale. He could get a sunburn on a cloudy day."

"I've seen pictures," he said with a laugh. Sirius had never met her father before he died, a few years ago, to a stroke. Hermione often liked to imagine they would've gotten along, although she supposed that might've been wishful thinking. "So you'll help? Please say yes."

"Yes," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as he slapped his palm triumphantly against the table. "I can't do much with the main dish. Steak, chicken, roasts - I burn it all. But, you know, baking, chopping, stirring, that sort of thing - I'm decent enough."

"I'll handle the main," Sirius said. "I invited your mum. I hope that's alright. Seemed rude not to, and anyway, I'd like her to come."

Hermione dropped her teacup back into the saucer a little too roughly, startled. "To Grimmauld? Is that - aren't there anti-Muggle charms?"

"Just the ones that keep it hidden from the main street," Sirius said. "I went through with the curse breakers from Gringotts a few years ago, remember? They got rid of all the truly dangerous bits, and Harry and I took care of the rest. Although - " he paused, "if you're worried about her being here, I didn't mean to overstep - "

"It's not that." Hermione knew he wouldn't have invited her at all, if he weren't sure it would be safe. "She's just...not quite used to the magical world, really. Even after all this time. She hasn't even been to the Burrow."

Something odd passed over Sirius's face at that, almost like anger, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Well, she's more than welcome at Grimmauld," Sirius said definitively, "if you want her to come, that is. I didn't feel right taking you away from her for Christmas, anyway, especially considering last year."

Hermione hadn't spent a proper Christmas with her mother since she was a little girl, before her Nana died, even. The subject was still a touchy one - last year, she and her mum had had a huge row about it and Hermione had booked herself a holiday in Italy just out of pure spite, dodging the invitations to the Burrow and Grimmuald's festivities, respectively. She spent Christmas Eve in the Vallicelliana Library and Christmas morning on a beach, and while she had returned to England more relaxed than she'd been in years, she got the feeling that this year her loved ones were determined not to let her get away with that ever again.

Sirius in particular had been fairly put out about it, to the point where Hermione had been fending off annoying notes from Orestes, the arctic tern that Sirius used for mail, on a nearly daily basis during her spiteful Christmas getaway. (Not nearly as reliable as an owl, to be sure, but damned if that bird couldn't fly distances twice as long in half the time.) She hadn't opened any of them until she got home, so it wasn't until weeks later that she discovered each note was essentially the same: _Enjoying the sun? Had a delicious sour apple cake today. Made me think of my most emotionally mature friend who's never afraid to suck it up and face the music, which is of course you (I think). Coming home soon, or are you too busy drinking bitters on your beach? Let me know. Your well-adjusted friend, Sirius._

Smug arse. This year, as if trying to preemptively corner her into staying put, he'd started planning the holiday in July. He'd weaseled a commitment out of Hermione by August first, and still feeling rather guilty, and a little (yes, fine) immature about her reaction last year, Hermione'd had no choice but to agree. She always regretted saying yes to Sirius, for many different reasons, but in this instance, she couldn't deny that he had somewhat of a point.

"I was planning on Christmas Eve with her, and then popping over here early Christmas morning," Hermione said reluctantly, "but I suppose, if she wants to come, there's no reason why we can't spend it all together."

"The Weasleys will have their own holiday," Sirius said reassuringly, "it'll just be Andie and Teddy, and Harry. And me, of course. And Luna, if she wants to tag along. Harry mentioned something about her having plans with her father, but you know Xenophilius."

"Oh, it'd be nice to see Luna before she and Harry jet off again."

"Andie's hoping he'll propose," Sirius confided, and Hermione laughed in surprise. "I did try to tell her. If he does, he won't do it here in front of us, that's for sure. It'll be on top of a volcano, or something. He'll write it on a cave wall while they're spelunking."

"He'll hide the ring in her excavation equipment and wait for her to notice," Hermione suggested. She grinned at the thought. She had no doubt that they'd get married eventually, but secretly, she thought they'd probably elope. Just show up back in England one day, rings already on their hands, acting all surprised that anyone would've wanted to attend. "I'm so happy for him. Doesn't he seem a little better, every time he Floos?"

Sirius nodded. There was a warm expression on his face, not quite a smile, but with such affection it made Hermione feel affectionate toward him in return, with a sharp underedge of longing that she always felt around Sirius, a familiar sort of half-pain, half-want that she was very used to, by now. "You know I really think that's why Molly has such a grudge against me. It isn't anything I've done, you see. But she thinks I've encouraged him to stay away, and I think she blames me for the breakup with Ginny, too."

"That's ridiculous," Hermione said. "They broke up because they barely saw each other."

"Well." Sirius shrugged ruefully. "She just misses him, that's all."

They all did, but Hermione thought that it was probably for the best, even though it was difficult. Harry had left with Luna not long after the breakup with Ginny and the spectacular failure of his Auror training, and the Weasleys all reacted with various levels of outrage, as if Harry had left Ginny for Luna specifically, which of course wasn't true. He'd simply needed to get away for a bit, and of course the best person he could've ran away with was Luna Lovegood, because for all her quirks and oddities she was probably the most empathetic, emotionally sensitive person Hermione had ever met. The romance came much later - a couple _years_ later, in fact, not that some of the more overprotective Weasley brothers ever truly believed it - and the ironic part was that out of all of them, Ginny was the only one who never seemed offended by it. In fact, she'd even encouraged it. Not even six months after the breakup, Ginny had sent Harry a bottle of nice liquor by owl post (Harry told Hermione it had taken four owls to carry it all the way to Iceland, where he and Luna had been staying at the time) with a congratulatory note that had been both deeply embarrassing and very funny, considering how Luna laughed whenever the subject came up and Harry's staunch refusal to tell anyone what was in it.

Ginny was dating a nice bloke from the French National team now, which was also very funny considering how much she'd complained about Fleur, back in the day (Fleur herself was a bit too smug about it, but Hermione supposed she deserved to make Ginny eat a little crow). Molly disapproved strongly, which only made Ginny like him more, naturally. That, along with Ron's recent marriage to Lavender Brown (much humbler as an adult, and surprisingly she'd taken quite well to lycanthropy - she and Bill spent full moons together on a remote plot of land that Sirius owned and offered up for their use) made the Weasley table fairly large and insufferable, loud enough to cover up George's solemnity, and Fred's absence, although nobody really and truly ever _forgot._ It occurred to Hermione, not for the first time, that perhaps the reason Sirius was so gracious about Molly's grudge was because he was willing to be the scapegoat to keep Molly's attention on her outrage, rather than her grief. It certainly seemed to help, sometimes.

There was a time, not long after the war, that Hermione had been that scapegoat, so she knew the feeling well. Even when they were angry with you, one couldn't help but want to stay wrapped up in the warm chaos of the Weasley family. It was fairly addicting - especially to someone from a lonely, quiet home. An aunt and uncle that didn't like you, perhaps - or a family that disowned you, and friends who had died and left you behind. Or a mother and father who were afraid of what you could do, and - Hermione suspected bleakly - blamed you for it to the point that they didn't want to know anymore.

Too much, but also not enough - the Weasleys in a nutshell. Hermione had only dated one of them ("dated" being used loosely, as a term) and not for long, but she could imagine how easy it would've been to let Molly pull her in, wrap her up in her affectionate bustle until she forgot that she wasn't actually born with red hair and a penchant for mischief. Sometimes Hermione thought that's what had scared Harry off too - not because he hadn't wanted it, but because he'd been afraid of taking it, and forgetting everything else.

"I'll be nice to - it'll be nice," Hermione said, stammering over the sentence that had almost slipped out: _to have everyone together again._ Of course it would never be _everyone._ Saying that to Sirius of all people seemed particularly insensitive. "Even if you are going to force me to cook."

"You can bring someone if you like," Sirius said, in that detached way he had of speaking when he was trying to imply something. "A boyfriend, or whatever."

"I'm not seeing anyone at the moment," Hermione said, carefully casual.

"I thought Ginny mentioned you were. Some bloke from your office?"

"If she's referring to the person I think she's referring to, then she's delusional," Hermione said archly. "I wouldn't touch that arrogant toe-rag with a ten-foot pole. She saw him bring me a cup of tea _once_ and now she thinks we're shagging in every broom closet in the Ministry."

"Alright then," Sirius said with a laugh, "it's just that Ginny seemed quite sure that you liked him."

"I don't," Hermione said shortly. "She thinks she can, I don't know, _annoy_ me into dating if she gossips about me hard enough."

"Not even a hint of affection?" Sirius teased. "A single _molecule_ of genuine interest?"

"For Maxwell Wagner? Sirius, for God's sake, he owns house elves."

"Well, Christ, enough said," Sirius replied, laughing again shortly and rubbing his jaw, shaking his head at the ceiling as if he were despairing of her. Hermione knew the sentiment was directed inwards, however, by the way he fumbled over his next sentence, gruffly and bashfully. "You could bring someone 'round though. Someone you did like, if the stars ever aligned to allow that to happen. That's all I'm trying to say." He fiddled with his coffee cup, which Hermione had no doubt had grown cold again. "I want you to feel like you're...welcome."

The double-edged sentiment settled quickly and painfully right beneath Hermione's breastbone: he wanted her to feel at home in _his_ home, but he was doing so by inviting her to bring a boyfriend around sometime. Hermione was used to feeling like she would only ever get half-measures of the things she wanted, but sometimes with Sirius, it was doubly painful since it came with the implication that his affection for her was fatherly, not friendly. And that was just embarrassing, on top of everything else.

"Well, I'll certainly let you know if the heavens ever decide to move me," she said lightly, and Sirius laughed again, in genuine amusement. "But for the purposes of Christmas, I'm afraid it'll just be me."

"And that, my girl, is more than enough," Sirius said warmly. Hermione looked away, unable to bear direct eye contact for too long. Especially when he brought out _my girl._ "And the incomparable Monica Granger, of course."

"If you've been flirting with my widowed mother, Sirius," Hermione warned, "I will shave your head while you sleep. I swear to Merlin I will."

Sirius just smirked. "James did that to me once."

"Did you deserve it?"

"Oh, absolutely. Would you like to hear how I got him back?"

Hermione took a long, leisurely sip of coffee, fussing as much as possible as she placed the cup back down into its saucer. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and readjusted her sleeves, imitating Andie's fussy table manners as Sirius laughed at her, before leaning over the table on one elbow and saying at length, "no."

Sirius tilted his head back and laughed, loud enough that Hermione felt like she'd accomplished something. Then again, she always felt like that, even when it was just a smile.

Her feelings for Sirius were, in order: embarrassing, foolish, a bit fanciful, hopeless. Hermione never truly expected anything to come of it; if anything, she felt rather sheepish that she managed to get herself in a situation like this at all.

It was natural and understandable that she'd had a crush on him as a teenager - after all, who didn't? He was handsome, charming, tragic, a bit moody, and he treated them like grown ups without a fault. Of course they all had a crush on him at some point. Even Ron would get flustered under the full weight of his attention, and of course Ginny's fair skin and tendency to blush when she was embarrassed gave her away each time. Fleur loved his company because he was the only person in the Order who was fluent in French (besides Hermione's amateurish attempts, that is) and would happily chat away with her by the fire for hours. And George - forget about it. His vulgar jokes about being "mentored" by the great and legendary Padfoot always had a sly ring of truth to them.

Hermione liked to think of herself as above all that childish nonsense, but of course she hadn't been. Sirius was always kind to her in a way that Harry and Ron often weren't - taking her emotions seriously, listening to her when she'd get off on a tangent, and he had a way of avoiding her sore spots when he poked fun at her, deftly turning her tendency towards self-deprecation around and twisting her own words into compliments. He even scolded Harry once - a rare occurrence indeed - for being dismissive towards her at dinner about S.P.E.W., which was more than enough to win him her seventeen-year-old loyalty. Not that he'd ever asked for it, of course, but as was often the case with charming, tragic men and the foolish women who loved them - she gave it to him anyway.

Hermione prided herself on being logical, on making decisions objectively and free from her emotions, which often caused her to swing too hard in the other direction, so she knew she could be cruel. Or that she came off that way, sometimes. It wasn't as if she thought her friends secretly loathed her, talked about her behind her back and thought of her company as a chore to get through, but sometimes - well, sometimes it did feel that way, even if she knew it wasn't true. Hermione never had friends, before Ron and Harry, before Hogwarts, before magic. Deep down she felt like there was perhaps a small part of her that was still waiting for them to pull the rug out from beneath her feet and reveal that it was all just a big joke, and Hermione would wake up the next morning as a Muggle again, friendless and alone.

An unrealistic insecurity, she knew. But Sirius, for all his faults, somehow saw it. He stepped in when the teasing got to be too much and defended her, he mentioned constantly how loved she was, as if he were trying to remind her that she belonged. He teased her all the time about how everyone supposedly had a crush on her. Always saying things like, _Better not wear that dress tonight if you don't want Kingsley to leave his wife for you_ or _you're going to break Georgie's heart if you don't sit next to him at dinner!_ It was all terribly kind, and unbearably lighthearted; she knew he didn't really mean it. Certainly not when she was still in school, but even as she grew older, and her friendship with Sirius deepened through maturity (and war), she never got the sense that that changed along with it. It was just a joke. A kind one, maybe a bit condescending at times, but still a joke.

It was a terrible thing to endure - a restless longing for something she knew would never happen, and it drove Hermione to do some very stupid things. Like Cormac McClaggen, for instance. Having narrowly avoided catastrophe at the Department of Mysteries in the spring of their previous year, they all went a bit mad in the first half of their sixth - Harry (along with half of his Quidditch team) got four weeks detention for getting caught in the greenhouses after hours with a case of firewhiskey - Ron cut most of his hair off and joined an art club - Luna started speaking in Norwegian halfway through October and refused to switch back to English - but Hermione really went beyond the pale on that front, abandoning all her propriety and embarking on a rather torrid fling with the worst possible option, in a very showy way. She supposed she was trying to prove a point - both to her friends, and to the gossips, and to herself - that she _could,_ but even though she had rather impressed everyone with her brazenness (and, frankly, her ability to capture the attention of a popular, fit Quidditch player), it still didn't feel particularly good. Especially not when Sirius found out at Christmas when Ron and Harry decided to tease her about it mercilessly in front of everyone, and his only response was to toast her with his wine glass and then blithely change the subject.

If she'd been hoping for a reaction there, she hadn't gotten one. At first she was glad - there, proof that she was being ridiculous! Proof that she could feel things for people who were actually attainable! But then she quickly went back to feeling foolish, because of course her feelings for Sirius didn't fade. If anything, they only got stronger.

Hermione dated quite a few people to try and escape it, actually, during the war and after, with increasing desperation. Dean Thomas, for a few painful weeks, having forged a sort of traumatic bond with him after their shared ordeal of having lived through the war as Muggleborns (something that - for all their love and support - their friends didn't always understand). One of Tonks's old friends from the Auror Academy who'd hung around for a while after the funerals, who was sad but in a distant way, and attempted to take her out to the theatre, restaurants, and upscale Muggle pubs (as if she'd been in any shape to be normal). One of Fleur's cousins, too - an elegant, very French cursebreaker, who dealt with his Veela heritage by being as coarse and vulgar as possible, which for embarrassing reasons worked very well for Hermione - but all that did was make Ginny mad (still staunchly anti-Fleur, even well after Victoire was born) and outside of the bedroom they didn't really have much in common at all.

The worst, and most embarrassing perhaps, was a scandalous affair with Charlie Weasley, which had made things so unbearably awkward between Hermione and Ron they were still struggling to move past it. She was working hard on not resenting the fact that Ron wasn't nearly as bothered by Harry and Ginny's short-lived relationship as he'd been by Charlie and Hermione's, but - well, perhaps it was different because she was a girl, or maybe it was simply because of the crush Ron used to have on her when they were younger that Hermione had always tried to be delicate about. Either way, the whole thing was a mistake - not just because she and Charlie were incompatible for each other in a number of very obvious ways, but because she couldn't possibly have chosen a more visible person to have a fling with. Molly Weasley still refused to have Hermione over at the Burrow whenever Charlie was in town. Hermione often felt like the uncouth American cousin in a costume drama whenever this happened.

Sirius was absolutely unflappable, in the face of all these ill-fated flings. If anything, he thought it was funny, which was a bit insulting. The war - and specifically, Malfoy Manor - had put them on a more equal footing, in terms of their friendship. This was both very good and very bad for Hermione, for what was probably very obvious reasons.

"I did think he was suited for you," was his only comment about Charlie. For all the fuss about the relationship, they'd only really been together for a month or so, and parted amicably when Charlie left again for work, with a half-serious offer from him to pick things back up again should she ever feel the urge to move to Romania. They'd always had that expiry date in mind, so Hermione figured their biggest mistake was that they hadn't bothered to keep it a secret.

"Suited for me? Really?"

"Well, yes," Sirius said with a shrug. He looked completely unaffected by the topic, and Hermione felt stupid for being disappointed. (He didn't even have the decency to threaten her boyfriends, for God's sake - all he ever did was congratulate her, like she was one of his _mates._ Hermione honestly couldn't work out if that was better or worse than Ron's suspicion, or Harry's gruff, brothery overprotectiveness or not.) "Ron's too emotional, too much of a temper. You'd just fight all the time, wouldn't you? And Mehdi was too posh."

"Are you saying I'm not posh?"

"I'm saying you need someone with their feet in the real world, darling," Sirius said, with a curious smile. "Someone who works for what they have, comes by it honestly. Charlie does that, and he's a good man, besides. Dependable, but not boring. Good sense of humor. He got you out of your shell a bit, didn't he? I could see it, that's all I'm saying."

"Well," Hermione said, nonplussed by his description of what she 'needed,' "he is a good man, you're right about that. I suppose I don't know if he was good for _me,_ we just simply weren't together long enough for me to find out."

"They'll get over it," Sirius said, correctly diagnosing what she was feeling glum about without being told - his most infuriating trait, in Hermione's opinion. "He's not that much older than you, and you're an adult. Molly's just old-fashioned."

"I don't suppose you were around when Harry and I were in fourth year," Hermione said, "and there was all that nonsense in the Prophet about us. Molly sent me a Howler."

"I heard about it," Sirius said darkly, crossing his legs and stretching out in his chair so he could nudge her knee with his boot, in his companionable way. "You shouldn't let it get to you. Who cares what she thinks? She's not your mum."

Delivered so casually like that, the sentiment felt like an insult. "She treats Harry like a member of the family," Hermione said defensively, stung. "What's the difference between him and me? Why did she find it so easy to believe all that nonsense Skeeter wrote about me? Why did she tell Charlie that _I_ would break _his_ heart?"

"She said that?"

Hermione nodded, crossing her arms across her chest. Charlie had told her about it almost as soon as it happened, upset about the fight with his mum and trying hard not to show it. Hermione had comforted him, as a good friend-slash-fling would, and then went home and cried herself to sleep.

Sirius looked at her sadly. "It really does amaze me," he said slowly, with some delicacy, as if he were choosing words carefully, "that even the most progressive, kind-hearted people still hold onto the uglinesses their parents taught them. Hermione, she treats you differently because you're a woman, and because you were raised by Muggles. You already know that."

Hermione pressed her hand against her mouth, as if she could push the bitterness back down her throat. It didn't work.

"But she means well. She doesn't - it's not a deliberate thing," Sirius said. "And I'm not saying I'm perfect, by any means. We all do it. You were right to say what you did that night, about Kreacher."

It'd been a terrible argument, conducted in harsh whispers in the dank corridors of Grimmauld's basement, just weeks after Dumbledore's death. Hermione never lost the uncomfortable, guilty pain that she felt, letting her temper loose against Sirius, on behalf of a creature who in 1975, had held a fifteen-year-old Sirius still while his parents tortured him with dark curses meant to "correct" his thinking. Not that she'd known that at the time, but knowing that now, the horrible piece of his past that he'd let slip to them one night in the tent - it made her guilt all that much worse.

"That's different."

"It isn't," Sirius insisted. "Because you were right. Do you think I was born immune to the prejudices of my family? I wasn't. The only reason I didn't end up like my brother was because of my friends. I said and did some terribly awful things when I was a child, because I didn't know any better, and because I thought it would make my parents love me. Is it understandable, considering everything? Maybe. But it is excusable?" Sirius shrugged, with a dour look on his face, like he was telling her the answer to his own question. "Not that I'm comparing Molly to them, fuck no. She's a good person, we both know that. We love her, don't we? Despite everything?"

Hermione did. It was impossible not to love the Weasleys, as annoying as they could be. "Do you think I'm a terrible daughter? For caring so much about what someone else's mother thinks of me?"

"No," Sirius said, looking startled. "Of course not. Is that - " he paused, uncertainly, "do you and your mother fight, about that?"

"Since my dad died, yes. She thinks I don't want to spend time with her," Hermione confessed miserably. She was wracked with guilt mostly because it was true - she didn't. Going home meant remembering her dad, meant missing him, meant she couldn't pretend he was happily enjoying his retirement in Australia somewhere out of sight, happy and content and very much alive.

"But she hasn't _said_ that to you?"

"Not in so many words. But - " Hermione tucked her legs up on her armchair, pulling the skirt of her dress over her knees, feeling childish and sad and suddenly, very cold. "I never told her about Charlie. I just said I was seeing someone, and it didn't work out, and then I went to meet her for lunch the other day and she said she got a letter from Harry - of all people! - and she was terribly upset because I guess he'd given her the impression it was more serious than it was."

"Harry wrote her a letter?" Sirius asked, his mouth quirking upwards. "As in, a full-length letter? With multiple sentences, and paragraphs?"

"I was as surprised as you are," Hermione said dryly. "He's worried about me. You know Luna's been encouraging him to work on communicating with people."

"Well, godspeed and good luck to her," Sirius said wryly. He paused, tilting his head and regarding her with a thoughtful expression. Hermione kept her gaze on the fire, trying not to react, but of course it was always hard not to when he looked at her like that, like she was the only thing on his mind, the only person in the world he'd want to be looking at. "Hermione, you do know you don't _have_ to spend Christmas with us. If you'd rather be with your mother, we would all understand."

Hermione swallowed through a dry throat. "I didn't say that," she said.

"I just don't want you to think - " Sirius stopped short, rubbing his chin. "The holidays are difficult, aren't they? I always think about Remus and Tonks. Their wedding."

Hermione remembered it. She'd watched it through Harry's two-way mirror, squeezed together on the floor of Harry's bedroom at the Dursleys. Hermione and Ron had sneaked in to keep him company for the last few nights before his birthday, using his invisibility cloak to evade his relatives, and since Hermione was of age by then, she was able to use magic to make them feel a bit more secure. They'd watched the small ceremony in silence, crowded together on Harry's bed as they listened to Remus and Tonks exchange earnest vows in shaky voices. Sirius had propped his mirror up on the altar next to the priest so they could see, and Remus kept looking over at it with anxious eyes, as if he were afraid someone else would be listening in.

"James and Lily got married on Christmas Eve," Sirius said faintly, sounding distant, trapped in memory. "Terribly romantic. We teased them about it mercilessly. It was summer, for Remus and Tonks. But it still felt like the dead of winter, somehow. You know what I mean?"

Hermione nodded, without speaking.

"I'm not saying I understand exactly how you feel, about everything," Sirius said earnestly, jolting her back out of her own memories, "and I suppose I can be a bit pushy at times. I just - I want you here with us, but not if you don't want to be here. Do you understand? So don't feel bad, if you want to spend the holiday with your mother instead, that's all I'm saying. If you need each other, you should be together. That's all."

What did Hermione need? The question made her feel faint. Some days she thought she needed nothing, and other days she felt so helpless and lost, so desperate for affection and attention and conversation that she couldn't even stand herself. She often stopped by Grimmauld when she got in these moods - carefully spacing out the visits, so nobody would suspect she craved them so much - and Sirius was always happy to light a fire for her and talk, make her a cup of brandy-spiked coffee and speak to her gently about things she didn't even know she was upset about. She wanted it too much. She liked it too much. She wanted to spend the rest of her life in that sitting room, with her bare feet against the warmed, tile fireplace, listening to the soft, gravelly thunder of his voice.

She also wanted to cut out her own heart sometimes, because all those things she wanted, she knew she couldn't have. He had never looked at her that way, would probably be appalled if she ever tried anything. Harry would be appalled too, probably. The Weasleys would riot. No, Hermione couldn't stand the things she wanted, as much as she wanted them. If she could take a potion to make herself fall out of love, she would've done it years ago, but there were, sadly, some things even magic couldn't fix.

"I'll think about it," Hermione said finally. He nodded, like this was the answer he'd been expecting. "Ron is still coming. Isn't he?"

"Bringing Lavender along, is what I hear."

Hermione sighed, and buried her face in the crook of her arm, leaning against the arm of the chair. Sirius laughed.

"Look on the bright side - at least Charlie won't be there."

"God has spared me," Hermione said, and he laughed again. "At least a little."

"Everyone's due a break every once in a while," he agreed. He grinned suddenly, looking excited. "Don't look so glum, now. It'll be fun. I promise." He tapped her knee with his boot again. "You'll see."

Three weeks after this conversation, Hermione was in Rome, spending Christmas Eve surrounded by ancient manuscripts she wasn't allowed to touch. Not her proudest moment. Or her bravest. To say the least. But in retrospect, she wasn't sure how else she could have handled it all. Not just her mother, and her own guilt, and the grand and terrible judgment of Molly Weasley - but that sitting room at Grimmauld, that fire, and the way Sirius had looked at her. She didn't know if she could bear facing all that this year either - it's not as if she'd gotten any stronger, or fallen out of love, over the course of the last twelve months - but she didn't have much of a choice anymore, did she? Sooner or later, if Hermione wasn't careful about what she avoided and what she didn't, he would notice. And then it really would all be over.

There was a small hope (very small) that her mother would turn down Sirius's invitation, but life wasn't nearly that fair or easy for Hermione Granger. Not even three days after her conversation with Sirius, her mum rang to ask what wizards liked to drink so she could bring a bottle of something, which quickly devolved into an anxious discussion of magical holiday traditions. It seemed as if Monica were perhaps just as nervous as Hermione was, albeit for slightly different reasons.

"I know you've told me this before, but I keep getting it mixed up with the holiday in August," Monica said. "The...death festival. Or whatever."

"That's the _vernal equinox_ , Mum. Hilaria, is what it's called," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "and it's in _March._ "

"Alright, well! Maybe I'm getting them all mixed up," Monica said sheepishly. "So Christmas is Saturnalia, I remember that part, and - do you really set the tree on fire?"

"We _do_ just call it Christmas, you know," Hermione replied. "Most families don't follow the old traditions anymore, especially now that so many of us live in secret in Muggle towns and cities. Didn't you read that book I got you for your birthday?"

"I have no patience for reading anymore, dear. I tried! It was rather dry though. No offense. Or maybe it was just my brain that was dry - you know attention span is the first thing to go in old age, don't you?"

Hermione sighed, trying to keep an irritated tone to her voice, even though she was smiling. Monica had adopted a bit of Wendell's dotty humor, in the years since his death. It was as if she were trying to imitate him to keep him alive still, whether for Hermione's sake or her own, Hermione didn't know. It _was_ nice, though (and a little annoying. But in a nice way, somehow). "Your brain's not dry, Mum," she said, "you're barely sixty. Don't look a day over fifty-nine, really."

"Well, thank you, I do appreciate that," Monica said dryly. "Still, I do need to know how much fire is involved. For my own peace of dry mind, we could say."

Hermione grinned. "Well," she said slowly, "in the old days, we'd slaughter a goat and then cook it over a bonfire constructed entirely from pine trees that were enchanted to burn forever and never die - to symbolize immortality, you see. But as I said, nobody follows the old ways anymore. Hardly anyone." She thought briefly of the pureblood parties of Sirius's youth that he'd told her stories about, and shuddered.

"Ah, a good old-fashioned animal sacrifice. Lovely way to celebrate the new year, in my opinion."

"I think that fell out of fashion in the late 1800s," Hermione said, still grinning, "nowadays most people just make a roast and drink mead by the fire."

" _Mead_! Now there's something I can bring."

"Well, you really don't have to bring that, Mum," Hermione said. "You should see the bar Sirius has in his library. He's got every kind of alcohol you've heard of, and then dozens more you haven't. I really think we're covered on that front."

"Yes, he does seem like the type," Monica agreed. "Did I tell you what he sent me for my birthday?"

Hermione switched hands on the phone handle, shaking out her wrist irritably. She always felt wildly silly, using such an old-fashioned rotary phone, but it was the only type she could find that could survive the magic in her flat, and while it was very heavy to hold for long periods, that only gave her a good excuse to keep her phone calls short. "He sent you a birthday gift? No, you didn't tell me."

"Yes, he sent a lovely cask of goblin whisky," Monica said. "It was delivered personally by a wizard! This short chap in a tuxedo. He did a whole presentation on it and then did something weird to my wet bar. It lights up and plays music, now. Only French songs though, I wonder why."

Hermione's mouth opened, and then closed again. "Did you say _goblin_ whisky?"

"Yes, I did indeed. I've only had a few sips of it so far; it tastes far too good to be hard liquor. A bit dangerous, if you know what I mean. Why do you sound so surprised?"

Hermione shook her head, unable and unwilling to explain that an entire _cask_ of goblin-made alcohol had probably cost Sirius more than what her mother paid on her mortgage every month. "Never mind."

"Well, I don't suppose any old bottle of liquor I could find would really interest him. Yes, you're right," Monica said, "but I can't exactly show up with a tin of cookies from Sainsbury's, either, can I? You have to help me out here, Hermione, I want to be an impressive guest."

Hermione's first instinct was to tell her she didn't have to bring anything, but she could hear the nervousness in her mother's voice, so she bit her tongue. "Harry and Luna will be there. I'm sure Harry would die of happiness if you brought that pistachio cake you always make him for his birthday."

"Oh, I was already planning on bringing one of those," Monica said. "I meant for _Sirius._ He is the host, after all."

Hermione's stomach twisted nervously. "You don't have to get him anything special, he's very easygoing. I'm sure he'd be happy with some sort of treat too - maybe I can pop over this weekend and help you make cookies or something - "

"Sweetheart," Monica interrupted, a bit of an impatient note to her voice, "I'm only asking you what he _likes_. You don't have to get defensive."

"I'm not defensive!" Hermione said, quite defensively. She then winced, rubbing her nose with her free hand. "I mean - "

"I'm not going to embarrass you, I promise. Which is why I'm asking for _help,_ " Monica went on, sounding exasperated. "I do manage to hold entire conversations with your loved ones without your guidance on a fairly regular basis, you know. Why, just the other day, I managed an entire Floo call with Harry and Luna, and I didn't mortify you even once!"

"I didn't - that's not what I meant," Hermione said gruffly, exasperated herself, and more than a bit frustrated. Hermione was so uncomfortable whenever the two separate universes of her life collided, it was no wonder Monica had picked up on it, and took offense. It was the root of almost every argument they'd ever had. "He likes...music. He collects vinyl records. And he restores motorcycles."

"Alright, well," Monica said, still sounding fairly ruffled, "does he like anything else? Because I don't know anything about motorcycles and I stopped listening to music in the 80s."

Hermione laughed, surprised by the joke. "Mum, come on, you watch Pop Idol."

"That hardly counts! Come on then, give us another idea."

Hermione sighed. She knew quite a bit about what Sirius liked and didn't like, which often seemed a bit weird to people, depending on who it was that was listening. Her mother, however, didn't spend enough time with her friends to tell the difference. (She hoped.) "Well, he likes books."

"Oh, come off it!"

"I swear!" Hermione laughed. "I'm really not just saying that. He reads more than I do."

"Well now I know you're having me on," Monica said gaily, her previous disgruntlement all but gone. "I'm not sure that's even possible."

"I'm very busy nowadays! I work for the government, you know!"

"Yes, I've heard," Monica replied. "Well go on, lie to me some more."

Hermione laughed again. "I swear I'm not lying! He likes fiction. Um - genre fiction. Sci-fi, fantasy, you know. And poetry, actually." She smiled, thinking of last weekend, when she'd happened upon him in the study with a glass of bourbon, cursing at a thick leather edition of _The Faerie Queen._ "Not really a fan of the neoclassicists as a whole, but he does like Shakespeare. And I know he has a soft spot for Donne."

"Is anyone really a _fan?_ " Monica asked, but her voice had lightened in approval. Hermione could tell she was a little impressed. "Contemporary? Has he read the modernists? Ooh, what about the Beats? Men who like motorcycles and liquor always love the Beats."

"He likes Virginia Woolf," Hermione offered. "Please don't buy him anything by Jack Kerouac, Mum, you know how I feel about him."

"Well, we can continue to agree to disagree about that," Monica said. "What kind of genre?"

"Well, he hates Tolkien, but - "

"Hah!"

" - yes, yes, he agrees with you, good job," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "but he loved _The Mists of Avalon._ Actually, anything Arthurian would be a hit with him - he's obsessed with swords and dragons. As if he doesn't get enough of that in real life." Hermione scoffed affectionately, thinking of Sirius's barely-concealed delight about the dragon they'd encountered in the bowels of Gringotts. If he hadn't been there to help calm the beast down, she didn't want to think about what could've happened. "And he likes Madeleine L'Engle, too. But you know, if you get him something recent it's a good bet he hasn't read it. He mostly reads things he finds in his library, which isn't exactly up to date."

Hermione was actually more than a little surprised that the Black library contained so many Muggle authors at all - let alone so many works of fiction - until Sirius explained that Andie had combined her library with the one at Grimmauld when she'd moved into a smaller house several years before. _Explains a lot, doesn't it,_ he'd said. _You see that shelf of bodice-rippers? Three guesses which Tonks family member bought those, and your first two don't count._ (Hermione had treated that particular shelf with a lot more reverence, after that particular conversation.)

"Hm, something new," Monica said, "you know Alice Munro has a new story collection out. I liked it quite a lot. But that's definitely not genre."

"It doesn't _have_ to be genre; he reads other things."

"Margaret Atwood?" Monica made a triumphant noise. "Ishiguro! His new one's quite good."

"I'm sure he'll love whatever you pick, Mum," Hermione said fondly, laughing at her enthusiasm, "you have brilliant taste."

"Only because I raised you, my dear. It rubbed off on me."

Hermione scoffed. Her mum had read classics at Oxford and was on her way towards a doctorate in literature before switching to dentistry in her thirties - a decision driven mostly by burn-out, Monica confessed to Hermione once. _I was so sick of being bloody poor,_ she confessed. _Do you have any idea what university professors make? It's not a lot! But that's how I met your father, so I suppose it was meant to be._ Now retired and widowed, Monica was contemplating finishing her doctorate, but after nearly thirty years, Hermione got the impression she was worried she couldn't hack it anymore. "More like the other way around."

"Oh, tosh," Monica said. "Well, I reckon I'll find something. You don't think it'll seem too stodgy to give him a book, do you?"

"No! I'll probably do the same, you know."

"You always get everyone books," Monica said. "Get him something else, why don't you? Take a risk for once, sweetheart."

Hermione's heart quivered. She cleared her throat, trying to ignore the feeling. "Not true. I always get Harry some ridiculous broom kit thing, and he always adores it. You'd think he'd have enough of them by now, but no, every year when I ask him what he wants, he says the same damn thing. The bloke at the Quidditch Supply shop doesn't even bother asking me what I want anymore, he just grabs the thing off the shelf as soon as he sees me."

Monica laughed. "He's a man of simple tastes, our Harry."

"In a good way," Hermione insisted, and Monica agreed laughingly. No, Harry was not what you would call _complicated,_ but Hermione had always rather thought that was a good thing. He was brave and loyal and Merlin knew he'd struggled against his darker impulses, just like they all had during the war, but the healthy, happy version of Harry Potter was a man who liked naps and Quidditch and spent most of his time carrying his girlfriend's things around as they climbed mountains together. Hermione was so proud of him sometimes she felt like she could burst. "Listen, Mum, do you still want me to come over this weekend? I could help you with the cake. And you know I have to take you to Grimmauld, remember it's magically hidden."

"Yes, I remember," Monica said patiently. "You're more than welcome sweetheart, you know that. But if you're busy, don't feel like you have to."

Hermione had taken that offered excuse many, many times, and she got the feeling Monica was resigned to it by now. Sirius's invitation was pushy, yes, in the way that he often pushed her to do things she ought to already be doing. Hermione was working on taking the hint. "I'm not busy. They send everyone home on Thursday anyway, when the Wizengamot goes into recess. I'll just be rattling around my flat all day on Friday and Saturday unless I find something to do with myself until Christmas Eve."

"Well, then, that would be nice," Monica said tentatively. "It's been so long since you helped me bake. You used to love to do the frosting - you and Dad would do it together. Do you remember?"

Hermione closed her eyes against the memory. She felt as if a cold fist were squeezing her heart every time she thought about her father, and the feeling didn't seem likely to go away any time soon. "Yes," she murmured. "I remember."

A moment of somber silence fell, and then Hermione heard her mother clear her throat, likely trying to move swiftly past some pain of her own. "Shall we say - lunchtime on Friday then? You can stay the night Friday and Saturday, before we go to Grimmauld on Sunday."

"Maybe you can teach me how to cook in two days," Hermione joked. "Sirius seems to think I'm going to help him with dinner."

"Well, I'm no miracle worker," Monica said. "Isn't that what you have that wand for?"

"You would think," Hermione said forlornly.

Gifts were easy for Hermione most of the time - everyone had fairly straightforward tastes, and nobody expected anything creative from her, which suited her just fine. Ginny, Harry, and Ron liked Quidditch things, and she usually sent a plant of some kind to Molly and Arthur, to be added to the back garden at the Burrow. Her coworkers at the legislature sang her praises when she brought in cupcakes from a fancy bakery in Westminster the week before Christmas (you'd think the progressive sort of wizards she worked with would be adventurous enough to venture out into Muggle London every once in awhile, but judging by their reactions none of them had ever encountered frosting whipped by hand before). Andie loved chocolates, and made a big fuss about her figure and how nobody should buy her any, and then practically fell to pieces each year when Hermione gave her some anyway. Fleur and Bill liked wine, and if Hermione wasn't already Teddy, Victoire, and Dominique's favorite aunt, she would definitely be in the running just for the Muggle candy she got them each year. ("How exotic!" Fleur always said. "Is this... a leetle _bear,_ made of _jelly?_ ")

Sirius was a difficult one though, and not simply because his gifts required more deliberation in order to convey the right impression of "affectionate" instead of "desperately in love" - a hard line to walk, Hermione knew that from experience - but because he was also fairly picky. Polite, to be sure, but very choosy. Hermione had witnessed him graciously thank people for Christmas and birthday gifts dozens of times, the picture perfect show of deep appreciation, only to come across said gift a few days later shoved into a drawer somewhere at Grimmauld, still half-wrapped in its gift paper.

Both her pride and her feelings for him made it such that Hermione desperately wanted to find things for him that would not end up forgotten or cast aside, but such a task was difficult when one was trying to keep their hopeless, hapless love a secret. So she usually defaulted to books: personal choices that she knew he would like, but not so intimate that anyone could see right through her. It usually worked.

Her mother's words, though, stayed with her this year as she did her shopping. _Take a risk,_ she'd said - as if she'd known? The thought made Hermione shudder with dread. For several years during her time at Hogwarts, both her mother _and_ father had somehow gotten the impression that she'd had a crush on Harry - probably because Hermione spent so much time talking and worrying about him, she thought ruefully in retrospect - and their "hints" and sly little jokes with each other about it nearly drove Hermione mad. Not to mention poor Harry, who read _one_ badly worded, cheesy joke over Hermione's shoulder in a letter from her dad during their fifth year, and promptly turned beet red and refused to sit next to her in the common room for weeks afterward.

If her mother figured out how she felt about Sirius, Hermione thought grimly, that would be the end of it. She'd have to change her name and leave the country or something. So: definitely no personal gifts this year, when her mother would be there to watch. Had to be a book. But then just as soon as she settled on that decision, she'd change her mind again, and think, _what about a new jacket? That one he's been wearing is getting so thin,_ or _oh, but he loves playing darts at the pub, what if I got him a board for the study?_

Too much. Even the more neutral ideas felt too personal. Hermione marched into Flourish and Blotts on the Wednesday before Christmas, fighting elbow-to-elbow with all the other last minute holiday shoppers, and stubbornly picked out a copy of the newest novel by a wizarding author she hated, but knew that Sirius liked. He would laugh and tease her about it, she would roll her eyes, everyone would laugh, and that would be that.

This resolve lasted just as long as it took her to Floo home, at which point she dropped the book on the ground accidentally, causing the author's photo on the back cover to exclaim, "hey, watch it, girlie!" Hermione glared at it and kicked it under the couch - she remembered the witch who wrote it, she'd been a few years ahead of her at Hogwarts and just as snippy back then, too - and stomped around her flat for a while, arguing with herself.

Take a risk, take a risk! Hermione scowled at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth angrily that night, her mind still stuck on the potential gifts she'd passed up that day at Diagon: an antique birdfeeder designed to attract hō-ō firebirds for his balcony - a scarf enchanted with mermaid magic, that would protect him from tracking spells - a beautiful set of metal playing cards charmed to change designs depending on what game was being played, with the tarot suit engraved on the backs so it could double as a tarot deck - all things that she _knew_ Sirius would love, but somehow the very act of getting him something that he would like so much seemed to be too revealing.

Was she a coward? Maybe. Yes. Hermione went to bed disgruntled, embarrassed, and still undecided. The snide comments from her mirror, and the annoyed crowing from the author's photo on the book - still discarded beneath her couch - only made her bad mood worse the next morning. Why did everything have to bloody _talk,_ in the wizarding world? Surely wizards couldn't be so starved for company that they had to enchant fucking _everything?_

Her bad mood lasted all through the last half day at work, only to be confronted directly by a cheerful letter from Luna and Harry, dropped off by Bjørn, the owl they both shared. He was waiting politely on Hermione's windowsill when she returned home from the office, with two festive red and green ribbons tied around both of his talons.

Hermione gave the last of her ham from supper the night before and complimented him on the ribbons, which he seemed to appreciate. He nipped at her hair affectionately and fluttered off for a nap in her rafters, which was startling if only because Bjørn wasn't the type of owl to hang around waiting for her to write a reply. The letter explained it, though:

_Dear Hermione,_

_This is Luna writing! Hello. I say that only because Harry wants me to make it very clear that the only reason he hasn't written in a few weeks is because he broke his wrist on a climbing wall. There aren't any wizarding hospitals around here, so we went to a Muggle one. I think in another life, I would have made an excellent x-ray technician. Don't you agree?_

_I don't think he minds the injury, even if healing the Muggle way means it will take longer, but he's quite determined to get better at letter writing so he is a bit down about that. Will you do me a favor and try not to tease him too badly about it? You may, however, tease him about his cast. I think neon green suits him but he does hate it. It was the only color they had, and his reaction was very funny. _

_We heard from Sirius that you and your mother will be staying with us for Christmas this year! Brilliant! We're flying home the Muggle way, since we seem to have a theme going. Have I told you where we are yet? No, I just read over what I wrote, and I haven't: we're in Russia! Surprise! The last we wrote I think we were still in Belgium, and that's entirely my fault. I would have owled you when we arrived in Novosibirsk, but Harry's been using Bjørn quite a bit lately and we wanted to give him a bit of a break, and then of course there was the climbing wall. Then we traveled a bit more - we're closer to Irkutsk now, not quite in the city but a group of small villages to the West, and it's quite remote. Not many wizards out here, but we have come across quite a few werewolf packs. Don't worry - they're friendly! Mostly they keep to themselves. Plenty of vampires, too. Harry's made friends with one who calls himself "Saint Ivan," though I don't think he's an actual saint. (He's over a thousand years old though, so who knows! Maybe!)_

_Speaking of, would you mind looking out for Bjørn for a few days until we get there? We weren't sure how to get him onto the aeroplane. If it's too much trouble, you could send him to Grimmauld, I'm sure Sirius wouldn't mind. He's really a very good bird. Very independent. Just leave a window open for him at night and he'll even feed himself._

_Harry also wants me to tell you that he quite likes sugar cubes. Bjørn, that is, not Harry! (He's reading over my shoulder.) Make sure you cover up the dish on your coffee table. He'll steal them all and he's not the type to feel guilty about it._

_We found wonderful gifts for everyone - I can't wait to see your reactions! Sirius says you're helping with dinner. Harry made a joke about emergency fire services, and now he's scolding me for telling you that. You know, he's very mouthy when he's injured. These little pain pills they gave us don't do very much at all._

_We know Andie will be there, but have you heard from Ron and Lavender? We want to see them while we're home, but I'm due to present my findings on the symbiotic relationships between volcanic bacteria and fire sprites at the OMCC conference in Brazil on Jan. 4, so we won't have that much time in Britain. I know they'll probably spend Christmas itself at the Burrow, of course, but do you think they'd pop over for a few hours at least? Harry wants to avoid the Burrow if he can, since Ginny and Jacques will be there. Not that he thinks it'll be weird, but you know how Charlie and George can be sometimes. _

_Well, I'm rambling now. We'll work it out somehow. We can't wait to see you! It'll be so nice to have both you and Monica there for Christmas! Harry's quite excited, and so am I. We love you!_

_See you soon,  
Luna (and Harry!)_

"Well," Hermione said, smiling fondly down at the letter, "I suppose it's you and me then, isn't it Bjørn? I don't suppose _you_ have any ideas on what I should get for Sirius." Bjørn squinted one eye at her from the ceiling, and buried his head in his wing. Hermione shook her head - she knew the feeling.

Grimmauld really was a very different place now, although the ominous air of faded grandeur never really went away completely. Sirius had surprised everyone when he'd decided to stay after the war, telling everyone that he wanted to make something good out of bad memories - or something to that effect anyway. Hermione suspected the real reason was financially motivated, not emotional - she knew he couldn't sell it until he made it safe, which took him a lot of time and money, and he couldn't afford to do all that _and_ pay rent on another place until he sold it. The Black vaults were large, but not infinite - and Bellatrix and Narcissa had chipped away at them quite a bit over the years.

Stuck again, after everything - although this time around, he was at least allowed to leave. Andie and Teddy spent quite a lot of time there with him - Andie was at loose ends herself, all alone in Dorset with her grandson and her grief - and of course he had quite a lot of overly helpful Weasleys always popping in to help. The kitchen had been redone, and the previously claustrophobic library had been lightened up with large windows with bright curtains, and the study - where Sirius spent most of his time - had a set of doors that led out to the garden. The portrait of Walburga had finally been defeated one night when Sirius and Harry had indulged in a little too much firewhiskey and decided to take the whole bloody wall out with a pair of hand axes - crude, but effective! - and it felt a million times lighter, since the oppressive walls of the foyer were now gone, and the entire ground floor was now open with no barriers between the rooms.

But it was the bedrooms that everyone had the most fun with: Sirius had allowed anyone to come in and decorate who'd asked, so each room had a little bit of different flavor to it. The room where Ginny and Hermione had stayed when they were younger was now bright orange and Chudley Cannon themed (Ron's influence, of course - "the Cannon Room") while the master, where Walburga once reigned, was scarlet red and Gryffindor gold (Harry's design, naturally - dubbed "the Common Room"). Sirius's room had been decorated by Andie and Teddy (apparently Andie had walked Teddy around the room and started casting color charms on everything she saw, to match the shifting shades of Teddy's hair) and as a result it was a hectic clash of colors, everything from dark purple sheets to bright green trim and a lamp that switched between red, blue, and yellow every time someone turned it on. (Hermione didn't know how he could relax in there with all that noisy color, but even she had to admit - the chaos did suit him, just a little bit.)

The room Hermione had chosen to decorate was the smallest on the second floor - as if she could squeeze in without anyone noticing she was there - and decorated in shades of pearl white, blue, and gray. Sirius told her that he called it "the Ocean Room," and needled her constantly about the fact that she'd never once slept in it.

"It's a _guest room,_ " she said.

"Exactly. And you're a _guest._ "

 _Exactly,_ Hermione always thought grimly. "Why don't you let Ginny sleep in there when she stays over? She can't be comfortable in that bright orange monstrosity upstairs."

"Are you kidding? She tracks mud in everywhere," Sirius said. "Love the girl dearly. Best Chaser I've seen since James. But you can't take her anywhere. Let her sleep in your room? No, I could never. She's a bloody hurricane in human form."

The fact that he called it _her_ room was almost worse; Hermione did in fact want very badly to spend the night, to sleep in the bed she'd picked out for his house, and then wander downstairs to drink his coffee in his kitchen with his music on the vinyl player, the old jazz records he always put on in the early mornings. But she wanted it a bit too much, and so she never did it. Not even on late nights, when she'd had far too much brandy to Apparate home safely, and Sirius would dog her heels (no pun intended) all the way to the fireplace, trying to wheedle her into staying.

"Well, this _is_ nice," Monica said, climbing the steps behind Hermione. She'd shown very little awe or wonder at the spectacle that was the house squeezing itself into existence upon being told the secret, and she didn't even blink at the clever bit of charming that made their gifts and baked goods float behind them in a festive little line. It was getting harder and harder to impress her mother with magic, honestly - Hermione didn't think she'd been able to truly surprise her with anything in years. "It doesn't look like a haunted house at all."

"Oh Mum, don't tell Sirius I said that."

"Don't tell Sirius what?!" Hermione jumped, pressing her palm to her chest as Sirius's voice boomed out from one of the first floor windows. His deep laughter echoed in the small front garden, and Hermione glared up at the general direction, eyes narrowed. "Come on in, Grangers, the front door is open!"

"Are you going to come down to greet us, or just shout at us from upstairs?" Hermione yelled back, hearing him laugh again. One of the windows winked, the sun reflecting sharply off the glass as he pulled it shut, and Hermione rolled her eyes, pushing the front door open with one elbow. "Don't worry. He's not nearly as rude as he seems at first."

"I don't know what you mean," Monica said, grinning, "he seems very courteous to me so far."

"Famous last words," Hermione muttered.

Someone had clearly gone a bit wild with the decorations; the banisters along the stairs were dripping red and green tinsel, and there were little floating candles along the ceiling, winking on and off between blue and white. The smells floating up from the kitchen through the vents hit Hermione's senses like a fragrant brick wall the second she opened the door: chestnuts, chocolate, and something spicy, almost like pumpkin pie. Hermione waved their things in with her wand, only barely managing to get everything inside before Padfoot bounded down the stairs and pounced, causing her to shriek and topple backwards against the coat rack. "Sirius!"

He barked, unapologetic. Monica laughed in surprise, leaning backwards to get out of the way while Hermione endured the affectionate attack. "I always forget how big he is, when he's a dog! Oh, is that the polite way of saying it? His dog _form,_ maybe?"

"He's a mutt," Hermione said, trying to push him away. She was half-leaning against the wall, pinned by Padfoot's weight, trying to angle her face so he'd stop licking her cheek. He was far too big, though, not to mention enthusiastic. "Sirius, honestly, you're messing up my _hair_ \- "

He barked again, dropping back down to his paws, his tail wagging madly. Hermione glared at him as she straightened back up, her hands flying automatically to her hair. He tilted his head at her and barked once more, nudging his snout against the side of her leg.

"I think that means you look fine, dear," Monica said, looking utterly charmed as Padfoot turned and nudged her too, ducking his big head into Monica's hand for a scratch. "Nice to see you again, Sirius. Or do you prefer Padfoot, at the moment?"

" _Snuffles_ could change back to a human and help us bring our things in," Hermione said pointedly.

"Well, what do you have that wand for?" Monica asked with a laugh. Padfoot sat down practically on top of her foot, his head pressed against her knee, and looked up at Hermione as if to say: _see? Why can't you be more like your mother?_ Hermione scowled. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen him this close up before," Monica continued, bending down on one knee to scratch Padfoot's ear. Encouraged by the attention - with a distinct air of smugness, Hermione thought - he shuffled closer, leaning his head into her hand and thumping his tail against the floor. "Sorry, is that rude? I don't know if I should talk to you directly or not. Can you understand speech as a dog, or does it filter back in later when you're human again?"

Padfoot barked twice, still wagging his tail. "That means yes," Hermione translated. She took off her coat, jumping a little as the coat rack reached down to take it off her hands. She was always a bit jumpy around the weird odds and ends of a truly wizarding household, but after a few days at her mother's very Muggle house, animated furniture was going to be an adjustment. "He can understand us. Dogs are quite intelligent, you know, and he's not exactly a normal dog, even if he looks like one."

"Fascinating," Monica murmured. She was getting dog hair all over her dress, not that Hermione thought she minded. "You know, there's an entire field of Muggle science dedicated to how animals process thought and emotion. Imagine what they could do, if they could talk to someone like you!"

Hermione edged around the pair on the floor to get to her mum's coat, left abandoned on top of the gifts. The coat rack hopefully reached out one arm for that one too, and Hermione tossed it over their heads before sending the colorfully wrapped packages flying gently away with her wand. They arranged in a neat line and floated past them into the drawing room, mirroring the gentle movement of the candles in the air above them. "There's actually not much research done on it in the wizarding world, to my surprise. It's more focused on Animagus magic, generally speaking, which makes sense, but - well, I suppose wizards aren't all that interested in non-magical animals like dogs."

"He seems magical enough to me," Monica said.

Padfoot barked roughly, as if insulted by the insinuation that he wasn't interesting, and Hermione leaned down to give him an apologetic scratch. He immediately rolled over on his back and onto her feet, fitting his teeth gently around one of her ankles and pulling at her stocking, something he often did with the children, play-fighting with them on the floor at the Burrow. Hermione's stomach flopped over and she laughed nervously, shooing him away.

"Oh, stop, you'll rip my stockings," Hermione said, darting away before Padfoot got any ideas about getting his claws involved. "Come on, Mum, let's get you settled in one of the bedrooms. You really are just going to laze about, aren't you?" She laughed nervously again as Padfoot jumped to his feet, shaking out his coat. Monica was eyeing Hermione a bit too knowingly, a small smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. "Well fine, if you're not going to change back and help then that means we get to pick out whichever rooms we want then."

Padfoot snorted, trotting past her through the stairwell that led down into the kitchen, nipping at the edge of Hermione's dress on his way. Hermione took that to mean that he was going to let them do that anyway.

"Should we follow?" Monica asked unsurely, peering around the coatrack to the stairwell that led down to the subterranean kitchen, tucked underneath the drawing room, below the level of the street. Hermione had an eerie flashback to the way this very spot had looked ten years prior: enclosed by imposing walls with grim portraits and dried-up elf heads, dark tapestries that made it feel even more claustrophobic, with the focal point being Walburga Black's portrait, staring down each visitor who dared to step foot in her home. Imagining her reaction to how it looked now - not to mention an honest to God _Muggle_ in her manor - would never fail to be funny. "Whatever he's cooking down there smells heavenly. Shouldn't we help?"

"We will," Hermione said, reaching out a hand to guide Monica towards the stairs that led upstairs, instead. "Let's just put our things away first. It's alright, Mum, he won't mind."

"Know your way around, do you?" Monica said, arching her neck back and forth as she took in her surroundings eagerly.

"Well, I spent a lot of time here growing up. Watch that step, it's broken," Hermione said, biting back a laugh as the step squawked in warning too just as Monica's foot was about to fall on it, causing her to jump violently, grappling for Hermione's arm in surprise. "Sorry, Mum - Sirius charmed it to yell at people, I should've warned you - "

"Goodness," Monica said, holding Hermione's elbow as they jumped the broken step together, "my fault. You've complained plenty of times about talking furniture, I should've remembered."

"Sirius isn't nearly as enthusiastic about household charms as Molly Weasley. _Everything_ bloody talks at the Burrow. It stops being fun after the first fifteen minutes you're there," Hermione confessed. They rounded the stairs to the first floor, and on impulse, Hermione stopped in front of the Ocean Room. "Here, Mum - you can take this one. It's quite nice."

"Oh," Monica said in surprise, a smile blooming on her face as Hermione pushed the door open. "How lovely. Oh - all this natural light!"

This had been the room Sirius was in when they were walking up, Hermione quickly realized, instantly noticing that one of the windows was unlatched. The covers on the bed looked fresh, and there was a light, bracing scent of ocean spray in the air - Sirius was quite handy at perfume charms (probably from all the pranking spells he'd helped develop when he was younger, Hermione always thought). A serving tray with a carafe of water, sitting chilled beneath another charm, was on the nightstand, and most touchingly - there was a vibrant plant with delicate pink flowers growing over the headstand of the bed, the bright green leaves curling delicately around the bedposts. Magically grown, Hermione knew, but the effect was still tremendously beautiful - it looked as if the plant itself were growing straight out of the floor, wrapping itself around the head of the bed in a fragrant embrace. It felt like summer, somehow, even though Hermione could see the dreary grey of the winter sky just on the other side of the window.

 _It's like Penelope and Odysseus's marriage bed,_ she thought, reaching out to smooth her hand down the sheets. _Carved from a living tree._ Her heart ached with longing, a desire to lay her head down against those pillows that was so strong, she felt almost faint.

"Camellias!" Monica exclaimed, reaching out and touching one leaf gently. "Oh, Hermione, this is beautiful. I couldn't sleep here, though - surely this is meant to be _your_ room."

"What?" Hermione laughed, knowing she still sounded quite nervous. She snatched her hand back. "No. I mean - I did redecorate it, originally. I didn't do all of _this_ , though - the flowers and everything - he probably did something for all the bedrooms. He's quite the host, you know, and he's been so excited to have everyone here for the holiday."

Monica leveled her with a gentle look, warm in its regard, but Hermione felt peeled open anyway, flayed apart by the sense that her mother could see right through her. "This was the room _you_ designed? Don't you think he intended for you to sleep in it, then?"

"I'll take one of the rooms on the third floor. Really Mum," Hermione said, trying to affect an air of breeziness. She found herself imitating Lavender whenever she did this, which was rather embarrassing to admit (not that she ever would). "You should have this one. I want you to sleep in it! I don't think anyone's slept here since I decorated it, so you should be the first one. I picked out nearly everything, you know. I even did the ensuite as well - though Sirius did put his foot down about that ugly clawfoot tub - apparently it was his favorite uncle's, I don't know." She laughed again, trying to embody Lavender's trademark, casual affection. "I prefer to take one of the rooms with a shower, anyway."

"So unsentimental," Monica teased, giving her a long, studied look. "Alright, if you're sure."

"I am," Hermione insisted, feeling not very sure at all, "here - why don't you freshen up a bit? I'll just go put my things down, and then go see what he's up to in the kitchen. Hopefully he'll have changed back by now so he can greet you properly."

"It's so nice, I'm afraid to touch any of it," Monica said with a sigh. Hermione narrowed her eyes and waved her wand at her mother's overnight bag, sending it flying up onto the small trunk at the foot of the bed. Another swish and it flew open, her slippers hopping out and arranging themselves on the floor, and the dress she'd clearly brought along for dinner came flying out, floating gently to lay out neatly on top of the bedcovers. "Oh alright," Monica said, laughing, "I can take a hint. I'll just powder my face, shall I?"

"I'll meet you downstairs," Hermione said, and turned her back on the flowers with determination. As if she would forget the moment she weren't looking at them? Hermione sighed, pausing briefly in the corridor and pressing the back of her palm against her flushed face. No, she wouldn't forget. She couldn't, even if she tried.

Sirius was human again when Hermione wandered down into the kitchen, standing at the stove stirring something on the hob. She hovered in the doorway for a moment, looking: his hair was tied back and his feet were bare, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a kitchen towel was tucked into his belt as a makeshift apron. The tattoos on his arms were the magical ones that moved every time he flexed his wrists, recent additions to cover up the stick-and-poke runes he'd given himself in Azkaban. Hermione wasn't sorry to say goodbye to those old, miserable reminders of his time in prison, but the new flashes of moving color that peeked out from beneath his sleeves were tantalizing enough that she tried not to look at them too much. There was only so much a girl could _take_ , sometimes.

"Ah, there you are," Sirius said, as if they were already halfway through a conversation, "come help me with this, won't you? I need someone to hold the bowl while I pour."

"Isn't that what your wand is for?" Hermione asked teasingly, echoing her mum's favorite jibe. Sirius shot her a sly look, grinning a little. "Oh my. Is this eggnog?"

"Untraditional," Sirius said, tugging the towel from his belt to wrap it around the handle, so it wouldn't slip as he poured. "You're not supposed to cook it, really. But James's mum used to make it like this, on the stove. Thought I'd give it a shot."

Hermione angled her face away from the hot liquid, the steam rising up and making her face flush hot. This had the unfortunate coincidence of bringing her cheek into contact with Sirius's shoulder as he leaned over her to pour, and she froze, trying desperately not to react. "It smells wonderful," she said weakly, taking a quick step back the second he pulled the pan away. "I didn't know eggnog was supposed to have _raw_ eggs."

"That's why they put bourbon in it," Sirius said cheerfully, "the alcohol kills all the food poisoning." He shrugged, placing the hot saucepan carefully back down on the hob.

"Bacteria," Hermione corrected.

"Well, whatever you want to call it. Go ahead and pop that in the icebox - there's a love," Sirius said, brushing his palm down the back of Hermione's shoulder as she passed. She shivered a little, trying again to control her face. "Now, I demand a hug. You look lovely in that color. And you changed your hair!"

Hermione blushed, hiding it against his chest as he gathered her close for an embrace. It was useless, she decided. She was destined to be a mess for this entire ordeal, from start to finish, she might as well stop trying to come off as normal. "I've worn this dress before, you rake. And all I did was trim it."

"I noticed the difference," Sirius said triumphantly, squeezing her shoulders as they hugged. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple, where his chin was pressed gently against the top of her head, and it made her shiver again. "Purple suits you. It brings out the blue in your eyes."

"I bought this at Marks & Spencer four years ago, and it was out of season even then!"

"You look like a model," Sirius continued, gallantly over the top as usual, "I'm afraid to even look at you for fear of a heart attack. If we were at war, I'd take your picture and send it to the front to lift the troops's spirits. They'd paint you on the sides of their planes."

"I hate you," Hermione sputtered, pushing him away. He broke into a loud laugh that filled the room, which only made Hermione blush even harder. "And look at you - in yesterday's clothes? And you didn't even greet my mother!"

"I greeted her," Sirius protested. "She was actually more polite than _you_ were."

"Well, far be it for me to disagree, but you did deserve it," Hermione said, and he laughed again. "The room is beautiful though, Sirius. I appreciate all the trouble you're going to for her."

Sirius's face did something strange - his smile twisted, almost like he was surprised, and he quickly stepped back, turning towards the stove. "It was no trouble," he said lightly, pulling his wand from his sleeve to cast a cleaning charm on the saucepan. "You set her up in the Ocean Room, then?"

"Yes," Hermione said. He nodded, not looking at her, and Hermione frowned. "Was that alright?"

"Of course, yes," he said, turning back to face her again. His expression was steady, neutral, but there was still something off about it that pricked Hermione's instincts. "I hope you took one of the bigger ones for yourself. Andie and I got through most of them last weekend, freshening everything up, but I didn't bother to pay much attention to the small ones on the third floor, so it's probably still a bit of a mess up there."

"I assumed Harry and Luna would take the Common Room," Hemione said with an uncertain smile, "I took the small one next to the stairs on the second. It doesn't have a name yet, I don't think."

Sirius's smile twisted again. "Hermione, that one's practically a closet."

"It has a shower!"

"So does - " he stopped talking abruptly, fussing with his sleeves. "Well, alright then, it's your decision. I suppose I shouldn't mention that that's the room my brother used to use to brew potions in, so if you smell something a little off, it's probably just leftover residue from boiled horklump juice on the ceiling or something - "

"Sirius!"

"Well, you chose it," Sirius said, steppling cleanly around her to get to the table. There was a pie cooling in the center, and an assortment of fruit and veg spread out on a few different cutting boards around it, in various stages of preparation. "I gave Andie and Teddy my room for the weekend - he loves the balcony, and it's bigger anyway. So I took the one down here on the ground floor."

Hermione grimaced. "And you're giving me grief about my choice?"

"It's not that bad - right outside the library. Easy access. Thought I'd have to fight you for it."

The sole bedroom on the ground floor, situated strategically by the back door, had served as a makeshift guard post for years when Grimmauld had functioned as both headquarters and a safe house for the Order of the Phoenix. It was grim and boxy, and no matter how many cleaning charms they cast, still carried the distinct odor of the banana-flavored cigarettes favored by Mundungus Fletcher. "You should just take out the bed and turn it into a closet," Hermione said, for the hundredth time. "Nobody actually _wants_ to sleep down here."

"Yes they do! It's close to the kitchen! Don't tell anyone I told you this, but," Sirius leaned in slightly, "Bill sleeps there when he and Fleur stay over with the girls. At least the last few times they were here, anyway - I only noticed because I caught him nipping out for a drink one night. He seemed mortified that I caught him, so I haven't said anything."

"Oh no," Hermione murmured. "You don't think they're having trouble, do you?"

Sirius shrugged. "The girls are getting older. They wouldn't be the first couple to start arguing a lot more when they find themselves with a bit less to do."

"It could be something more simple. We shouldn't read into it," Hermione insisted. "Maybe she steals the covers."

"Or he snores?" Sirius laughed, nudging her elbow. "Runs in the family, eh?"

"I regret telling you that," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Sirius chuckled again, reaching out again with his hand to pull at the decorative ribbon that wove through the waistline of her dress, untying it quickly before she could stop him. It was a little game he played to rile her up - untied her shoes, pulled the pins out from her hair, unraveling her in little ways, both knowingly and unknowingly. "Stop it."

"I didn't do anything," Sirius said, dodging her smack. "You stop it."

"You always - stop acting like a child! - no. _No_ ," Hermione said, trying to re-tie the ribbon and dodge his attempts to get at the one in her hair, to untie that one too. She angled her shoulders away, biting back a laugh when he tried to lean over the chair between them and accidentally slammed his stomach against the wooden stave on one of the arms. "I refuse to engage in these games with you. I _refuse._ I am a grown woman and you are a grown man, _allegedly_ , and - hey!"

He'd used wandless magic to untie her hair ribbon, causing her hair to tumble down across her shoulders, and immediately Hermione went after him angrily, trying to get close enough to hit him. He dodged her though, laughing merrily as he put the table between them, raising his hands defensively. "That wasn't me, that must've been the wind. This is very violent of you my dear, and on Christmas, too - " he yelped when she tossed the discarded end of a courgette at his head, only barely managing to dodge it. It smacked against the opposite wall with a dull thwack. "Hey now - don't throw my food around. It's arcanic! The shite is expensive, you know."

" _Organic,_ " Hermione said, laughing. She picked up a neatly sliced piece of squash and popped it in her mouth. "Don't tell me you went to Borough Market without me again."

"I picked up some of that coffee you like for tomorrow morning," Sirius offered. He narrowed his eyes at her as she picked up another one of his nicely chopped vegetables - a carrot this time. "Are you trying to ruin your dinner, or mine?"

"Why not both?" She grinned, and then shrieked out loud when he wandlessly sent a gust of wind flying her way, ruffling her hair even worse than before - and pulling her dress out of order too. "Sirius! I swear to Morgana - "

"I told you it was the wind!" he said, laughing, and then dodged another vegetable.

This was how Monica found them - bickering over the table, lobbing bits of produce at each other. Hermione immediately straightened up and shot her an innocent smile, like she'd been caught misbehaving in class, and Sirius nailed her in the forehead with a green bean. She flinched, but didn't let her smile drop. "Mum! Finally, you're here! This absolutely isn't what it looks like. He started it."

"I absolutely did not," Sirius said.

"Please," Monica said, stepping gingerly over a fallen tomato on the ground. She was carrying the pistachio cake, still covered up in its dish, and carefully she leaned over and slid it onto the table next to one of the cutting boards. "I know my daughter better than almost anyone. She definitely started it."

"Mum!"

Sirius laughed, dodging Hermione's smack once more to get around the table to take Monica's hand. He kissed the back of it like a Victorian gentleman, leaning over in a grand gesture with his free hand behind his back. (Although the tattoos gave him more of a Byronic air than an Austenish one, in Hermione's opinion.) "Mrs. Granger, welcome to Grimmauld. I am so glad you're here, if for no other reason than to help me keep Hermione humble. It's a full time job, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh, I know," Monica said dryly, blushing a little under Sirius's attention.

"I feel a bit singled out here," Hermione muttered, resentfully grabbing another carrot. Both of them pointedly ignored her.

"Thank you - it's a lovely house. But I thought I told you to call me Monica."

"Well, your daughter told me I was impolite and now I have a complex about it."

"Hermione, calling someone _else_ impolite? Now that's funny."

"Alright," Hermione cut in, and both of them turned to grin at her, "that's quite enough. We have all night and all day tomorrow for you two to complain about me, but right now I'm rather hungry, you know."

"I noticed," Sirius said dryly, raising an eyebrow at her as she munched on another bit of squash. "That's for the salad, you know."

"You put squash in a salad?"

"I'm doing a summer theme! What do you think the lemons are for?"

"Oh, okay," Hermione said, making a face at her mother, "he spends two weeks in Greece and now he thinks he's Mediterranean - "

"Excuse me, this is _your_ heritage I'm honoring. Stop making that face at me, you look like a house elf."

Hermione gasped and reached out to smack him again; as usual, he laughed and dodged before she even got close. One day, she swore - _one day,_ she would catch him.

"I think a summer salad sounds wonderful," Monica said, observing the scene with visible amusement, "although if you really wanted a Greek Christmas, I daresay that lamb would've been the better choice, rather than beef."

"Ah, I tried to convince Harry, but he demanded his favorites," Sirius said fondly, "quite rudely too. Although he is injured, so I suppose we'll have to indulge him this year purely out of pity."

"Because you indulge him so rarely otherwise?" Hermione said archly, raising an eyebrow at him. Sirius shrugged in agreement, grinning.

"Harry's injured?" Monica asked.

"Just a broken wrist, Mum," Hermione said. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Well yes, you mentioned it, but I assumed that he would, you know," Monica waggled her fingers, "magic it away. Or whatever you call it."

"He's letting it heal the Muggle way," Sirius said, with a hint of what might be pride, "actually he's working on using less magic in general, lately. He's been writing me about it. He wants to develop his wandless magic to a point where he can leave his wand behind when he wants to."

"I didn't know that," Hermione said, surprised. "Is that because - " she stopped talking abruptly before she brought up Harry's persistent struggles with uncontrolled bursts of emotional, unconscious magic, shooting an uneasy glance at her mother, who looked politely away, preoccupying herself with unwrapping the cake.

"Maybe," Sirius said. "I don't know. He didn't tell me that much. Ask him about it when he gets here," he urged.

Hermione nodded, feeling a bit bad about asking in front of her mother in the first place. Both because it felt like a breach of Harry's privacy, but also because it felt rude to exclude her so directly, in a way that Monica had to have noticed. "Mum baked his favorite too," she said, in an effort to smooth over the moment, "she's not any more immune to Harry's cow eyes than you are, Sirius."

"Pistachio! He told me about that too. Went on for a whole paragraph about it," Sirius said, leaning over the table to peer at the cake eagerly. Monica smiled at them proudly; she'd decorated it with a mascarpone frosting and dotted it with almonds and raspberries. It was a rare thing, even now in retirement, for her mother to indulge sugar, so Hermione knew the weight of the gesture spoke to her affection for Harry (and her desire to be accepted by everyone else) more than any sense of pride in her baking. "In Harry speak, that's practically a sonnet. It looks delicious, Monica."

"Thank you," Monica said, smiling. "Shall I - do you have a refrigerator, or - ?"

"There's an icebox," Hermione corrected gently, "no electricity here, remember? But - here." She waved her wand over the cake, and a faint shimmer hovered over it for a moment before fading away. "Stasis charm. It'll keep just fine for as long as we need."

"Handy," Monica said, peering around the kitchen curiously. "No electricity at all? But then, how do you - oh. Magic, of course." She laughed, shaking her head. "You know, I've never really thought about it, but I suppose a lot of things about daily life are different when you can just wave your wand at things."

"Handy, yes," Sirius said, taking Monica's elbow grandly and pulling her into the main hollow of the kitchen, "but Muggles have the leg up on us when it comes to innovation, I've always thought. Magic limits your thinking in some ways, and frees it in others." He opened the grate of the oven to show her, and Monica gasped at the blue flame that hovered inside in perpetuity, an old spell that Hermione knew was invented in the Middle Ages. Not all that dissimilar to the bluebell flames she'd learned in her first year - but a bit more complex, and much more powerful to say the least. "This oven dates to when the manor was originally built, in 1612. Of course it looked very different then - my ancestor Simeon Black was a Lord in Muggle Parliament, the land was gifted to him by the Queen. Or at least that's what the family lore always said." Sirius pointed at the dark green stones that lined the interior of the oven, magically preserved in a way that they looked brand new. It was dome-shaped, Hermione knew, although one couldn't see it from the way the wall had been grown over top of it, and functioned a lot like a brick pizza oven. "We do know these stones came from China, which would have been quite expensive at the time, obviously. Hermione was actually the one who did the provenance on most of the house - she knows more about it - "

"Just the interesting bits," Hermione protested, at Monica's impressed, over-the-shoulder look, "the oven obviously - the bookcases in the library - and some of the marble inlays on the third floor - "

"Most of it," Sirius interrupted, grinning out of the side of his mouth at Monica. "Anyway, it's quite old, but ripping it out and replacing it with something modern seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. Plus it works fine." He stuck his hand inside, over another surprised gasp from Monica, waving his hand through the flame, which licked around his fingers harmlessly. "It's quite safe. Only burns food. Most often, Hermione's."

"It has a bit of a personality," Hermione told her mum, a bit grumpily, "hence why I'm the _last_ person who should be helping with Christmas dinner - "

"You already promised to stir things!" Sirius said, unapologetic.

"Amazing," Monica marveled, "a piece of history, really. You couldn't rip it out now - a Stuart-era oven? Still in working condition? That's incredible!"

"Well, it's practically brand new, compared to some of the things you'd find at Hogwarts for example," Sirius said, sliding the grate shut. "Their ovens date to the late 12th century, at least."

"Good Lord," Monica murmured. "That's...I can't even imagine it."

"But see, that's my point exactly," Sirius said. "Wizards are lazy thinkers. You haven't noticed? We figured out how to do something five hundred years ago, and then never bothered to improve upon it. That's why we still walk around in robes, for heaven's sake - we're too used to waving our wand and making it work, rather than approaching the problem with a fresh mind and working out a new way of doing it."

"I did think the robes were a bit weird," Monica admitted. "And the pointy hats? When Minerva McGonagall showed up at our door when Hermione was eleven, we thought she was a whack-job."

"Mum," Hermione said, exasperated. Sirius just laughed.

"Well, we did!" Monica said. "Funny, I don't see you walking around in those medieval-looking things anymore - "

"My office is rather progressive though," Hermione said. "A bit of an anomaly. I still have to wear traditional robes when I attend Wizengamot sessions."

"She looks rather grand in them," Sirius said. He looked at Hermione sidelong, grinning. "Pulls them off much better than the stodgy old skeletons that actually occupy the seats."

"Sirius doesn't wear robes either," Hermione said. Her best bet when it came to compliments, especially from Sirius, was to ignore them entirely. "I don't think I've...ever seen you wear them. Actually. Now that I think about it. Other than - well." The night they'd met, all those years ago, at the Shrieking Shack. He'd been wearing prison robes then, but they were so tattered and dirty she hesitated to characterize them as actual 'clothes.'

"That's true," Sirius said. As he often did, he brushed past Hermione's awkward mention of a painful memory, as if he hadn't even noticed it. "Never liked them. I used to get in trouble in school for wearing Muggle clothes to class."

It probably went without saying that this probably infuriated his family as well. Hermione smiled to herself, thinking of the young Sirius she'd seen in pictures, strutting through the halls of Hogwarts in denim jeans and a dragonhide jacket.

"Hermione's father was the same way," Monica said, with an aching, sad sort of affection. "He and I didn't meet until we were much older, but I have all these photographs of him when he was a teenager. His mother had a letter framed on her wall from the headmaster of his primary school about his record number of demerits for uniform violations."

Sirius laughed. "Like father, like daughter," he said slyly, "you know I heard from McGonagall that nobody's broken her record yet. Most points won _and_ lost in the _same term_ by the _same student_ \- "

"Shut it," Hermione said crisply. "I maintain that I deserved a handicap for being friends with Harry and Ron. Just the association alone lost me dozens - "

"Spring/summer fourth year," Sirius said, biting back laughter. "Winning points left and right in class, then losing them the second she stepped out in the corridors. Did she tell you she lost fifty in one go for cursing so loud in the greenhouses, it woke up the mandrakes?"

"I seem to recall an owl about an incident like that, yes," Monica said slowly, smiling with more confidence as she was brought into the joke.

Hermione crossed her arms, maintaining the facade of irritation so that her mother would feel even more encouraged. "I was surprised."

"You called Vincent Crabbe a, what was it? - excuse my language, madam - 'dead from the neck up cunt.' Beautiful." Sirius broke into laughter, stuttering a little over the last few words. "Harry was so scandalized he wrote me immediately - I read the note out loud at an Order meeting, we all had a great laugh - "

"He grabbed my arse in the middle of class!"

"Well, in that case, you should've called him worse," Monica said. She walked over and slid her arm around Hermione's shoulders, pulling her close for an impromptu hug. Hermione's frown broke, pushed to its limits by the affection, and she smiled and rolled her eyes over her mother's shoulder at Sirius, who was watching with a warm, amused gaze. "That temper of yours - it's your grandmother's. I've always been proud of you when you let it loose. You were far too good at keeping it hidden, when you were younger."

"I only got out of detention because Professor Sprout saw him grope me," Hermione grumbled. "But my uniform was always _perfect_ , thank you very much."

"Ah yes, it was the 'cursing loudly in public' that always got you in trouble," Monica said. "Also a habit of your grandmother's, God rest her soul."

"Hermione had plenty of reasons to curse, I say," Sirius added. "Especially _that_ year. You would've given James and I a run for our money; we were always getting in trouble for that."

"Remus probably despaired of you," Hermione said fondly, remembering all of a sudden about Remus's famous distaste for curse words. That last year of the war, he was always after Tonks and Sirius at dinner to watch their mouths around the baby, she remembered with a sharp pang.

"He did," Sirius said, "but then Lily joined us and she had a dirtier mouth than both of us combined, so he gave up. A man knows when he's beaten."

"Harry's mother?" Monica asked curiously. "The way people talk about her, in the paper or in the history books, makes her sound like she was...well, not the type of curse."

Sirius barked a loud laugh, and Hermione rushed to say, "they get a _lot_ of things wrong in those books, Mum."

"Ask Harry to show you some of Lily's journals," Sirius said. "Andie and I dug them out of the Potter vault for him a few years ago. She was - "

" - spirited," Hermione interrupted with a smile. A few choice phrases floated through her head; Lily had been an eloquent writer, with loud opinions and even louder turns of phrase. "Opinionated?"

"Haughty," Sirius said. "A bit mean. But in a lovely way, if that makes sense."

"It does," Monica said, smiling. "Would it offend him, if I asked?"

"No. No, he loves talking about them," Sirius said, squeezing Monica's elbow. "Especially now that he knows so much more about who they were. He'd love to show you."

"Maybe I will," Monica said decisively. "After dinner, perhaps. Speaking of - "

"Ah shite, yeah," Sirius said. "I should probably get the roast in this ancient oven, eh? Hermione, you're going to want to change out of that beautiful dress, because I guarantee you, I _will_ spill something on it."

"Is that a threat?" Hermione asked thoughtfully. She squeezed past her mother quickly though, eager for the chance to escape the warm room and splash some water on her face. Her stomach had been doing somersaults since the moment she'd walked in. "I suppose I'll be right back, won't I? No embarrassing stories while I'm gone."

"Now _that's_ a threat," Sirius said, in an undertone to Monica, who laughed delightedly. The last thing she saw before she slipped out of the room was her mother's face, warm and relaxed, and Hermione knew in that moment that she'd been silly to be nervous about her mother mixing with her friends. Sirius, after all, had a way of making everyone feel welcomed. It was one of the things she liked - loved, if she were being painfully honest - about him most.

Andie and Teddy descended upon Grimmauld, tumbling out of the Floo only minutes before Luna and Harry's arrival, a two-pronged attack that seemed coordinated if only to drive Hermione batty with the chaos. She escaped Harry's enthusiastic bear hug only to be swept up by one of matching intensity from Andie, who was quite fit for an older woman. She'd spent years at the Auror Department after all, and in her retirement had taken up a form of Burmese boxing as a side hobby (Sirius made constant jokes about the twenty-year-old instructor with a crush on Andie so large it could be seen from space), so Hermione felt rather out of breath after finally wiggling out of her embrace.

"My dear girl! You look stunning. Red _is_ your color," Andie said. She was in a gorgeous velvet Christmas gown, green trimmed with dark blue, and her black hair, streaked rather attractively with bright, white-ish gray, was swept back by a dragonbone comb that had a sprig of holly pinned to it. "Did you do something to your hair?"

Hermione blinked. "I only trimmed it - "

"I noticed!" Andie said triumphantly. The similarity to Sirius's observations made Hermione's mood sour a bit (as if she didn't already know that Sirius's admiration of her was a joke?) but as usual, in the face of Andie's trademark, boisterous enthusiasm, she couldn't hold onto the irritation for very long. "You look more beautiful each time I see you. The winter air does wonders for a young woman's skin - my mother-in-law used to say that. Teddy!" The six-year-old, hidden behind her skirts, poked his head out and giggled. "Say hello to Aunt Hermione!"

"'Ello, Aunt 'Myrione," Teddy said.

"No, darling, it's _Her_ mione."

"Errrmyrione," Teddy repeated dutifully. His messy mop of hair was flashing erratically between a dark green to match his grandmother's skirt, and a brilliant, jewel-toned purple.

"Close enough," Hermione said with a laugh, kneeling down for a hug. "I missed you, Teddy!" Teddy mumbled something Hermione didn't catch and tumbled into her arms, pressing his round cheek against Hermione's neck for a messy, affectionate kiss, and then wiggled out of her arms just as fast, darting away down the stairs to the kitchen, where they could all hear Sirius and Harry laughing loudly, shouting at each other affectionately. Probably wrestling on the floor, Hermione guessed - wincing as she heard something crash. _Definitely some wrestling,_ she thought. "Merlin, he's getting so big. I can't believe he's almost seven."

"The time just flies away from you, doesn't it? Oh, give me another hug," Andie said, reaching out her intimidating arms again. Hermione stepped into the hug dutifully, hiding her wince against Andie's shoulder as it quickly turned a bit too enthusiastic again. "I did mean it, you look wonderful, and so healthy. A bit of weight on your hips, eh? All that rich food Sirius has been feeding you - I told you it would do you some good."

Hermione could feel herself blushing as she pulled away. "Stop it, I look the same as I always do."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Andie pulled Hermione easily into a sideways-facing embrace, wrapping one arm around her waist and tugging her towards the kitchen stairs. "No, something's different about you this afternoon - I swear it. Something...inspiring, perhaps? A _floral_ surprise, maybe?"

"Floral - you mean the camellias?" Hermione asked, surprised. Andie smiled at her, her eyes scrunching up. "Oh well - they are beautiful. It was wonderful of Sirius to go to so much trouble."

"Trouble?" Andie laughed, a bark-like sound that was almost identical to Sirius's. "No, I don't think it was any trouble for him. Not any that he didn't want, anyway."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, the tight hold Andie had on her waist beginning to border on uncomfortable. "Well, my mum loves them. She said it would be the nicest bed she'd ever sleep on."

Andie stopped short, blinking in surprise. "You put your mother in the Ocean Room?" she asked, and Hermione squirmed a little, nodding. "But darling, that's _your_ room. Isn't it?"

"Well," Hermione said haltingly, "I decorated it, yes - "

"Didn't you like it?"

"The flowers? I loved the flowers," Hermione said, laughing to cover her confusion. She felt a strange unease at the keen, intensely curious look on Andie's face. "I just thought my mum would be more comfortable there, that's all."

"Hermione," Andie said, a bit sharply, sounding frustrated, but a loud shout from the other room cut her off, and she winced. "We'll talk later. Just you and I, hm?"

"Talk about what?" Hermione asked, incredulous, but the noise of the kitchen was upon them, and Andie didn't answer.

Harry and Sirius were indeed on the floor wrestling, with Teddy climbing all over them shrieking at the top of his lungs. Luna was at the kitchen table with Monica chatting amiably, the chaos on the floor not seeming to be bothering them even a little. Hermione rushed to join them, eager to escape whatever _that_ had been with Andie, and Luna reached up and squeezed Hermione's hand in greeting.

"I was just telling your mother about the roast three Christmases ago," she said. "What song did it make everyone sing?"

" _A Whiter Shade of Pale,_ " Hermione said. She smiled ruefully at her mother. "George planned that prank for weeks. Mrs. Weasley was so furious she made him eat dinner in the garden."

"How very Monty Python," Monica said, laughing. "I didn't think wizards would know that song!"

"They somehow always latch onto the weird ones," Hermione said, slipping into the chair next to Luna's. She looked radiant - her hair curled and pulled back behind her ears by ostentatious golden hair clips that still somehow suited her perfectly, a blue and green dress, her wand precariously dangling from one of her long necklaces. Hermione grinned at her, reaching over for a proper hug. "Lu, it's so good to see you."

"My my 'Mione," Luna replied, hugging her tightly. "I missed you the most, I think."

"Don't say that where a Weasley would hear it!"

"Andie promised to teach me how to box, so I could probably take them," Luna replied, pulling back. Hermione's hair got snagged by one of her spiky earrings and they both laughed, tangling their hands together as they both tried to pull each other free. "No - don't move, don't move!"

"Now this is something _I_ have a magic touch with," Monica said, batting their hands down gently so she could reach between them and unravel Hermione's curls from the earring. "The precarious nature of female hugs. They never warn you about that when you buy interesting jewelry."

"They're too heavy anyway," Luna said, pulling them off her ears one by one. The funniest thing about Luna, Hermione thought, was that she wore so many strange, gigantic earrings, and yet she didn't have her ears pierced. They were all magically stuck on. For some reason that was absolutely hysterical; Hermione giggled at her every single time.

"Foul! Cobbing in the air! Excessive use of elbows!" Sirius's voice boomed over Teddy's high-pitched laughter, and Andie's smirking taunts from where she was egging on the chaos by the doorway. "Who's in charge here?! Referee!"

"Stuff it, old man," Harry said, wiggling away, red-faced. He caught Teddy by the stomach mid-jump and lifted him into the air with a shout, causing him to burst into another round of breathless giggles. "Lu, did you see me cobbing?"

"I don't know what that is," Luna called merrily, serenely cheerful.

"Lu didn't see me cobbing," Harry said blithely, dodging a dirty swipe at his knees from Sirius. "Somebody had sour grapes for breakfast. What do you think, Teddy?" Harry leaned over, holding the little boy upside down, his head hanging close to where Sirius lay, panting and grinning, on the floor. "Does Uncle Pad look sour to you?"

Teddy didn't reply, his face bright red from laughter. Sirius reached up and tickled his neck and he squirmed in Harry's hold, his hair flashing between blue and white, over and over.

"Dirty tricks all over the field, I think. Ruffians and cheats, from one side to the other," Andie said, calling it from the other side of the kitchen where she was already shoulders-deep in the icebox. "Who wants eggnog?!"

"Oof. Put some pain potion in mine," Harry said, collapsing noisily in the chair next to Hermione's, Teddy in his lap.

"I'm surprised you can pick this ruffian up at all, let alone with your wrist!" Hermione poked at the bright green cast curiously. "I never had one of these. You know, _my_ bones always healed themselves, when I was little."

Harry grinned at her, and without looking over, yelled, "Hermione wants brandy in hers. As much as you can put in it without catching it on fire!"

"Shut it," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, squeaking out loud when Harry laughed and went in for another bear hug with Teddy squashed between them, all knees and elbows. "Oh Merlin, I'm going to have hug bruises! _Ouch_ \- Teddy darling, watch the knees please - "

"Well, we missed you," Harry said, squeezing her one more time before releasing her. Teddy laughed and escaped again, squirming out of Harry's hold to rejoin Sirius on the floor, who seemed to be taking up residence there, smiling at something Andie was saying as she measured out cups of eggnog. Hermione watched as Teddy tackled Sirius with the rabid enthusiasm that only a six-year-old could muster, and Sirius immediately collapsed sideways, feigning dramatic pain as both Andie and Teddy laughed uproariously.

"They let me watch them put it on," Luna said cheerfully, reaching over Hermione to turn Harry's cast over to show them the doodles on the other side, a string of little flowers and stars inked in black marker. "The surgeon's daughter did this in the living room. I mean - waiting room. Isn't it cute?"

"Doctor," Harry corrected. "Surgeons are the ones who cut you open."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Ew, Harry."

"Well, it's true! Right, Mrs. Granger?"

"Quite right," Monica said. She already had a glass of eggnog in her hand - liberally spiked with brandy too, if Hermione was any judge of her expression - but she was smiling warmly at all three of them. "What kind of break was it?"

"Don't remember what they said really," Harry said cheerfully. His hair was growing long again, Hermione noticed - though not nearly as long as Sirius's - and he raked his hand through it in a restless gesture that Sirius had told her many times reminded him painfully of James. "Luna gave me some pain potion and it all got a bit fuzzy there for a while. I do remember they said I could get it off in about a month."

"He's going to do the whole thing the Muggle way," Luna said proudly. "Well - except for the pain potions, anyway."

"What did they give you - standard Painless Potion?" Hermione asked. "That's not much different from Muggle pain pills, you know, at least in scientific terms."

"There are a few analgesics that would give some of your potions a run for their money I bet," Monica said knowingly. She reached out and took Harry's cast gently, studying it. He indulged her patiently, a fond smile on his face. "Well, you look like you've been taking care of it. That's a rite of passage, you know - breaking a bone. You put the plastic bag on to shower, and everything?"

"Yep," Harry said. "Hate it. Huge pain in the arse."

"Also a rite of passage," Monica said, laughing. "A slice of cake will heal you up, perhaps."

"Well, I was _trying_ not to mention it," Harry said, his voice rising a little. Hermione and Luna looked at each other and laughed. "But I did notice that cake over there that looks _remarkably_ like my favorite dessert in the _entire_ world - "

"Now, I know that's not true!" Monica cried, grinning. "You talked my ear off for almost an hour once about the treacle tart at Hogwarts!"

"No, no," Harry said, shaking his head, "I don't even remember the treacle tart anymore. That was kid's stuff. _That_ is my favorite dessert. Did you make the - "

"Yes," Monica said.

"And you added the - "

"Of course I did," she replied, sounding almost offended.

Harry plopped his head down on the table in defeat, groaning like he'd been shot. Hermione leaned hard against Luna's shoulder, laughing as Luna reached out with her foot and poked his leg incessantly, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. Harry endured it for a few moments before yelping when she hit a sensitive spot, his head shooting up to glare at them both.

"Sirius is making a prime rib also," Hermione said, and Harry looked almost faint, wobbling a little in his chair, his head shooting around so fast to look at the oven it had to hurt a little. "He hasn't put it in yet! I'm supposed to help...or something."

"Merlin, does he want to ruin it?" Harry asked, and Luna kicked him. "Ow!"

"Listen, don't defend my honor when it comes to cooking," Hermione said loudly, pitching her voice to be heard over her mother's loud laughter, "I said the same bloody thing. I'm a bad omen in the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley probably cursed me in revenge when I broke up with Charlie."

Harry sputtered with laughter. "Oh God, she would," he said, "that's it. That's the secret. That's why Hermione can't even toast bread without setting it on fire."

"That was one time!" Hermione cried, outraged. None of them stopped laughing long enough to notice.

"Is she trying to get out of cooking?" Sirius demanded, practically shouting across the kitchen.

" _Yes_ ," Hermione shouted back.

"The discourtesy," Sirius said, pointing at her. "Appalling!" Andie interrupted the dramatic gesture by stepping right over him cleanly, balancing a tray in the air with her wand, and he glared playfully at her and then turned back to Teddy, who was sitting cross-legged next to him on the floor, seemingly fascinated by Sirius's pocket watch.

"Tuck in, children," Andie said, letting the tray fall gently to the table. Harry immediately grabbed the brightest-colored cup, a garish red and yellow mug, and handed it grandly to Luna, who smiled at him sweetly and waved her wand over it, causing a miniature, gentle hurricane in the liquid. It splashed her in the face a bit as she sipped happily, but she didn't even flinch. "I don't think we've met yet - I'm Andie Tonks. You must be our Hermione's mother."

"Monica," said her mother, reaching up to shake Andie's hand. "You're Teddy's grandmother - I've heard so much about you."

"Likewise!" Andie said gaily, sliding smoothly into the seat next to her. "You're a dentist, I hear? My father-in-law was one too. Served in World War Two before he opened his practice in Kent."

"Your...father-in-law?" Monica asked uncertainly.

"My late husband was a Muggleborn," Andie explained, and Monica's face lit up. Hermione watched it happen with a certain sense of happy resignation; Andie was undeniably charming, likeable in the way her daughter had been, and even in her darkest moments she never lost the demonstrable friendliess that made everyone feel very at ease around her. She and Sirius were very alike, Hermione had always thought - the first time they'd met Andie, watching her and Sirius interact was almost eerie, like witnessing long lost siblings bickering after years apart. Charming, a bit crude - always down for a laugh. It was incredible that two people with such warm spirits came from such a hateful family. But maybe that was why, Hermione thought - flowers blossoming amongst the frost, and all that.

It was a good choice of guests, she thought, surveying the tableau: no Mrs. Weasley to intimidate her mother, or make her feel inadequate. No Ron and Lavender, to make _Hermione_ uncomfortable, and thus turn the air tense. Little Teddy to keep everyone distracted and happy. And Andie was clearly doing her best to put her mother at ease, too - chatting enthusiastically, asking questions that she'd clearly come up with beforehand, if Hermione had to guess. She looked over at Sirius and smiled; sometimes, she remembered just how lucky she was, to have people who cared for her so much.

Sirius looked up, as if caught by her gaze, and smiled back. Hermione found herself breathless, frozen in her own affection. She watched as he leaned down and whispered something to Teddy, not breaking eye contact with her, torn halfway between embarrassment and a longing so intense she felt as if she could physically touch it, throbbing beneath her skin like a fever.

She felt almost on the verge of tears as Teddy scooted over to her on his knees, Sirius's watch dangling from one hand. Sirius's gaze turned softer, and she knew he could see her emotion, so she pulled her eyes away quickly, biting the inside of her lip to hold her hands out for the little boy. "Well, look here, it's my favorite Teddy," she said, and Teddy popped up beside her chair, still kneeling on the floor, and leaned into her arms with a big smile. "Did you come over just to say hi?"

"No," Teddy said, resting his cheek sweetly against her arm. Hermione's heart melted. "Uncle Pad says I'm supposed to bring you."

"Bring me where?" Hermione looked around dramatically, exaggerating the gesture.

"To cook," Teddy said, pulling on her dress. "I'm helping too."

"Oh are you? You're probably better than me then. I don't think Uncle Pad needs my help at all if he's got you."

"He said we're making roast and also potatoes," Teddy said, "and he already made a pie and he said I could have some if Nandie says it's okay and also we have carrots. And most people put carrots in the pan and cook them with the roast but we're going to cook them in a different pan so they don't get mushy but he said you have to make the sauce because you're in charge of stirring."

Hermione blinked at the onslaught of words. "I'm in charge of sauce?" She frowned. "I don't like the sound of that. Sauce sounds like something I could burn."

"Teddy will supervise you," Harry cut in, breaking away from the conversation with the others to reach down and tug on Teddy's shirt, pulling it back into place. "He's very responsible. You can help Aunt My with the sauce, right? Keep her from burning it?"

Teddy nodded very seriously. "I'm almost _seven_ ," he told Hermione meaningfully, and she bit back a smile, struggling to keep her face grave as she nodded at him.

"That's so _old_ ," Harry said, smiling at Hermione over top of his head. "Hermione, can you believe how old that is?"

"That's the oldest age I've ever heard of!"

"You're older," Teddy said accusingly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He never did like being teased - Moony's genetic pride, Sirius called it - but it didn't stop any of them from trying.

"That's true," Hermione said to Harry, "we're very old. Ancient, practically."

Andie, overhearing this, broke off in whatever she was saying to Monica and laughed so loudly she almost choked. Harry grinned at Hermione, reaching over Teddy to nudge her.

"Better get a move on with dinner then before we all expire," he said.

" _You_ could help him," Hermione said pleadingly. "You're a much better cook than I am, and you could spend a little more time with Sirius - "

"He wouldn't have me," Harry said slyly, sipping his eggnog smugly. "Go on, then. Look, he's already started chopping without you."

It was true. Sirius was pulling things out of cupboards and drawers with his wand, a pan of water already halfway to boiling on the hob next to his elbow. Hermione sighed. "If I poison you all," she announced, "I just want to state for the record that it was not my idea."

"How does she intend to poison us if all she's doing is stirring?" Luna asked out loud, a bit dreamily, as if this were a rhetorical question. "Is she really that bad?"

"Yes," Hermione and Harry said, almost simultaneously.

"It's called 'rehabilitation!'" Sirius yelled, from the other side of the kitchen. "Food! Hermione! Stirring!"

"Merlin save us all," Hermione muttered.

Sirius was actually a fairly good cook, a fact which surprised almost everyone who'd had the opportunity to try some of his food at one point or another. Maybe that was the other reason Molly didn't like him very much - she always was a bit territorial.

"No! She eclipses me," Sirius said, shaking his head. "A roast dinner here and there, compared to weekly feasts for eight children, plus guests? Doesn't even compare."

Hermione privately thought Sirius's roasts were a bit better than Molly's, but perhaps it wasn't fair to compare. Sirius could probably afford better cuts of meat, after all. "Are you suggesting that the amount of effort that goes into a meal affects its quality?"

"Doesn't it?"

Hermione shrugged, making a face at Teddy, who was sitting on the counter next to Sirius's elbow, carefully arranging carrots in a roast pan. There seemed to be some sort of spiral pattern emerging, although there were just as many pieces being munched on as there were being added to the dish. "What do you think, darling?"

"I like Mrs. Weasley's cookies," Teddy announced. He pronounced it like _Wheezy,_ which always reminded Hermione fondly of Dobby.

"She makes a mean cookie, doesn't she? Careful, son," Sirius said, leaning over to pull Teddy a bit farther away from the stove, "watch your elbows, there."

Teddy raised one of them up and tried to hold it close to his eye, bursting into giggles before he could even execute the joke. Hermione laughed along with him, dropping her spoon momentarily to lean in and squeeze him close, her heart swelling with affection. He was just so bloody _cute_.

"Oi," Sirius said, waving them apart, "back to your pan, Granger. Don't let it burn."

"You said the gravy was forgiving!" Hermione cried. "Why did you give it to me if I could burn it?"

"Exactly, _forgiving,_ not _saintly,_ " Sirius said. "And all you have to do is stir it. Think of it like a potion! You're quite good at those, I hear."

Hermione grumbled a little, but returned to her small, sad pan of gravy regardless. "You know," she said, in an undertone to Teddy, " _Mrs. Wheezy_ never yells at me when I help."

Teddy giggled again, reaching up to hold a carrot out to Hermione. She leaned down and bit off the end, chewing with her mouth open to make him laugh, realizing only belatedly that Sirius watching out of the corner of his eye, grinning to himself. She nearly choked, turning back to her gravy to hide her blush.

The afternoon spilled into evening gently, helped along quite a bit by both the eggnog and the company. Hermione split her time between the kitchen and the drawing room with the others, allowing herself to be pulled back into the business of dinner by Teddy, who had appointed himself as Sirius's maȋtre d' at some point. He kept bringing bits of food, carefully walking back and forth with spoonfuls of things for people to taste, and he only spilled it once, and even then it was just a bit of sauce on Harry's leg, which everyone agreed hardly counted.

"Why, I don't think I've ever experienced such wonderful service before," Monica said grandly. She was quite taken with Teddy, as Hermione knew she would be. "Not even in the finest restaurants!"

"Maybe we should give him a suit," Luna suggested. She reached down and accepted the forkful of beef Teddy was offering her, thanking him with a nod of her head before immediately handing the food off to Harry, who gobbled it down shamelessly. (His complaints about starvation had been increasing in both volume and melodrama since about two o'clock, and didn't show any signs of abating.) "What do you think, Teddy? A proper three-piece with a cumberbund and everything?"

"What's a cumberbund?" Teddy asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It's a type of car, darling," Andie said. Hermione snorted in surprised laughter.

"No! It's a _motorcycle_ ," Harry said. "They drive them in Belgium."

"Don't be silly," Luna said, her eyes bright and cheerful, "it's a savory spread they put on toast. Invented in Alaska."

Teddy looked at them suspiciously. Along with his pride, he'd also inherited a healthy intolerance for nonsense from his father. Hermione was already quite proud of him. "That's not true."

"No, it is," Harry said, ruffling his hair. Teddy squawked and batted at his hand in outrage. "Ask Aunt My, she won't lie to you."

"It's a stuffy little thing that men wear around their waists at weddings," Hermione told Teddy, angling her nose up in the air proudly. Harry rolled his eyes, grinning, tossing one of the small pillows from the couch at her. Hermione flicked it away with her wand, not even looking. "Sort of like a corset. Do you know what a corset is?"

"Nandie's aunt has one on in her portrait and she's always yelling about it and she looks like this," Teddy burst out, making an exaggerated face of distress, his eyes opening wide and his mouth twisting weirdly. The room erupted in laughter, which caused Teddy to break out again into a proud smile. (While he had very little tolerance for other people's jokes, he did have his mother's enthusiasm about making his own, which was a charming quality that Hermione predicted would become very annoying as he got older. Not that she wasn't looking forward to it.)

"Which aunt is that?" Hermione asked, "I thought you threw all the Blacks to the bonfire when you finally defeated Walburga?"

"Not technically! But we call her that so we don't hurt her feelings," Andie explained. "Uncle Alphard had a scandalous association with his business partner's wife. She was American, you know, a _poet._ Nearly half his age. My mother was appalled, and Walburga refused to even let her through the door at Grimmauld when Alphie tried to bring her for dinner once - or at least that's how the story goes. This was before my time, and well before Sirius's."

"His business partner's _wife?_ " Monica asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, Sirius told me this story!" Harry said. "They tried to start a business selling CB radios to wizards, but Gringotts wouldn't give them a contract and the Ministry refused to recognize them as legitimate."

"Yes, well, that had more to do with the fact that Alphard skipped out on a few tax bills in the thirties than it did with his associations," Andie said with a laugh. "His politics weren't the only reason nobody in society gave him the time of day."

"He wrote poetry himself, didn't he?" Luna asked, smiling a little to herself. "I think I came across a few of his pieces in some old editions of the _Quibbler._ My grandpop knew him fairly well; I believe they took a trip to Antarctica together once."

" _Bad_ poetry," Andie said. "Ask Sirius to show you. Truly awful. Very funny! But very bad. Aunt Dottie was much better."

"Sorry," Monica said, raising her hand, "but I'm still stuck on the 'wife' part - "

"Oh," Andie said, waving her hand, "the man was awful. Terribly mean to his wife. He and Alphie fell out after their business failed, but Dottie couldn't divorce him, of course. If you think the marriage laws are archaic _today…_ " She tutted, shaking her head. "So they worked some kind of curse - Alphie was quite good at spell modification - to make her invisible to her husband - quite literally speaking - and they got a flat together on Brick Lane, and lived quite happily together in sin for many years. She stayed with him until he died, you know. Sirius and I used to spend weekends with them - she was the one who taught Sirius how to drive. She also loaned Ted and I the money we needed to buy our first house."

"She moved back to America after he died," Harry said, to Hermione and Luna, "she was one of the people who sent Hagrid photos of my parents - do you remember that photo album he gave me in first year? - but she died before I met her. Before Sirius got out of Azkaban, even."

"She never believed he did it," Andie said sadly, her tone turning a touch more somber, "she used to send me long, hysterical letters about it. Left me a vault full of gold with the stipulation that I use it to mount a legal defense. Of course by then, the point was rather moot, so we folded it into a vault for Dora, and…" Andie's voice faltered a little, but she shook her head, brushing the emotion off. "Well. Alphie refused to sit for a portrait of himself, but he had a few commissioned of Dottie. Two of them were destroyed when Walburga got her hands on Alphie's flat after he died, but I managed to save one of them. It's a Victorian theme - he made her dress up as Juliet from _Romeo & Juliet._ Gigantic dress, tight corset, has to look melancholy and pining all the time. Not a day goes by that she doesn't complain that I didn't grab one of the other two portraits instead - apparently _they_ were _neoclassical_. Togas and the like. I guess they painted her as Artemis in one of them."

"She's the Goddess of arrows," Teddy said helpfully, tugging on Hermione's sleeve. Hermione grinned at him. "Aunt Dottie says she killed men who saw her - "

"Teddy!" Andie said, before he could say it. The others just laughed.

It was a lovely story that Hermione felt charmed by; Sirius's scandalous, American not-aunt, who taught him how to drive. He'd never mentioned her to Hermione, but that wasn't surprising. Sirius rarely talked about the people he'd loved who were now gone; it was as if he couldn't bear to even say their names out loud, some days. This was a source of tension at times between him and Harry, who wanted to hear every story, every scrap of detail about his parents and Remus, even when the simple act of asking caused Sirius pain. They were both quite stubborn about it though, and even when they fought their words had a light air of irony to them, as if they were playacting. Hermione had never been truly worried about it.

It was decided at some point in the evening that Hermione's gifts would be opened first, that same night before bed, which was a compromise between Luna's family tradition (all gifts before dinner on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day being saved for "outdoor activities," whatever that meant) and Andie's, who had some very staunch, traditional ideas about holidays, including cookie decorating in the morning, someone dressed up as Santa (Sirius and Harry had both _vehemently_ refused, apparently) and very rigid processes about gift-opening on Christmas morning. ("No wonder Tonks always got annoyed by Christmas films," Harry muttered, sotto voce to Hermione.)

"But why mine?" Hermione asked.

"Because you got everyone books," Andie replied simply. Harry snorted a laugh into his eggnog. "Oh hush - it's a tradition in Iceland, you know! Books on Christmas Eve."

"That's true," Luna said, absently patting Hermione's arms. "It began during World War II. They send out a nice little catalog of the new books coming out each year, and they even try to release most of the big ones in the fall so people can buy them for Christmas. They call it the 'Christmas book flood.'"

"I didn't get _everyone_ books," Hermione said, a little sullenly.

"No, you got me a broom kit," Harry said easily, and Hermione smacked him. "Ouch! What! It's what you always get me!"

"Because you always _tell_ me to get that for you!"

"It's tradition!"

"I suppose you'll have to open a few of mine as well," Monica said, nobly trying to help Hermione save face, even raising her voice a bit to me heard over Luna's giggling, "I picked out books for quite a few of you. Sorry to ruin the surprise."

"Oi, we're just giving away the game now, aren't we," Harry complained. "Get Sirius in here. He'll be the tiebreaker vote."

"I'll get him," Hermione murmured, handing her eggnog over to Luna, who happily dumped it in her own cup and took a generous sip. She slipped away, eager to escape the warm room, which was on the verge of being uncomfortable, heated as it was by the fire and the close crush of laughing people.

Sirius and Teddy were in the kitchen, unsurprisingly, but they weren't cooking, which made Hermione pause in the doorway for a moment, surprised. The prime rib was done, resting on the counter, and there was a spread of veg and potatoes in various states of completion on the table, but Sirius was sitting on the floor again, with Teddy curled up next to him, and their faces were dour. Teddy's eyes were even a little red, as if he'd been crying, and Hermione stopped short, unsure of her welcome.

"Hermione," Sirius greeted, catching sight of her. He held out one of his hands, meeting her eyes significantly. "Pull up a seat, why don't you? Teddy and I were just talking about you."

"About me?" Hermione asked, startled. She kneeled down next to Sirius and held out her hand, and Teddy immediately scooted over to lean against her, ignoring her hand completely in favor of cuddling up beneath her arm. Hermione squeezed him tight, kissing the top of his head, her heart quivering. "Am I that bad? What's all this then?" She rubbed her thumb over Teddy's cheek, which was a little ruddy and damp still from tears.

"Oh yes, you're the worst," Sirius said lightly. He met her eyes again, face heavy with meaning. "No, I was just telling Teddy here about your nightmares."

Hermione squeezed the boy tighter, an unconscious reaction. "Oh?" she said, struggling to keep her voice light.

"And mine," Sirius continued, as if she hadn't spoken. He didn't look at Teddy, keeping his voice casual. "Almost everyone has them. It's not all that weird, is it?"

"No," Hermione said seriously, squeezing Teddy close. "Even your Nandie does, even though she's a bit too proud to tell us about them."

Teddy didn't say anything, but he turned his head slightly, his cheek pressed against Hermione's arm. Sirius smiled at him gently and Teddy let his legs fall to the side, his body relaxing minutely.

"Certainly nothing to be ashamed of," Sirius said, his voice terribly gentle. Hermione had clearly intruded upon a monumental moment halfway through, but judging by the look on Sirius's face, her timing was almost perfect. "And you know, sometimes Hermione and I talk about them, and that helps me feel better about it all. Doesn't do to keep it all bottled up, you know." He reached out and clasped Teddy's ankle, wiggling his leg back and forth a bit, which made the boy smile fleetingly. "Hermione's a very good listener. Maybe you could tell her about yours sometime."

Teddy shrugged. Hermione, with her heart in her throat, kept her arm warmly wrapped around his shoulders and said nothing.

"Just a thought," Sirius said lightly. He met Hermione's eyes again meaningfully. "Do you want to stay in here with us for a little while? The food will keep for a little longer."

Teddy nodded silently, pushing his face into Hermione's arm. He was swinging his legs back and forth, his knees knocking rhythmically against Sirius's leg, but his face was still a bit red. Hermione held him close and kissed his head again, wondering again for the millionth time what Remus and Tonks would have been like as parents, if they'd had the chance. How would they have reacted? Would Tonks have made jokes, to pull her son out of his melancholy? Remus always excelled at playing the straight man to Tonks and Sirius's absurd senses of humor, but he _was_ markedly more reserved, and gentler when it came to comfort - would he have been quiet and sympathetic, offering reassurance to Teddy instead of distraction?

She would never know. None of them ever would. But, Hermione supposed, if they'd lived, then perhaps the question wouldn't have come up at all. Teddy didn't start having nightmares until Andie told him how his parents died, only a few months ago, when he started asking about the memorial statues in Diagon Alley.

"So," Sirius said brightly, stretching out his legs. Hermione got comfortable as well, leaning back against the icebox and arranging her feet a bit more comfortably. Sirius immediately rested one of his ankles on top of hers, raising a playful eyebrow. "Teddy tasted your gravy. He thinks it passes muster. Didn't I say it would be easy?"

"Teddy likes black pudding," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose. "I don't know that his judgment can be trusted." She squeezed the boy playfully, who smiled bashfully and quickly hid his face in her arm again.

"It's those Scottish Tonks genes. Can't blame the boy; he can't control his own nature."

"You know, I've never met a six-year-old, even a Scottish one, that likes _black pudding,_ " Hermione argued. "Maybe he's an alien. Have you noticed any weird sounds? Antennas growing out of his head?"

Teddy giggled a little, batting Hermione's hand away as she ruffled his hair, pretending to inspect his skull. "I'm almost _seven,_ " he said, his voice quieter than usual, but no less proud.

"Yeah, Hermione," Sirius said pointedly, "he's almost _seven._ "

"Oh that's right. I nearly forgot," Hermione said, smiling. Looking back at Sirius, she felt a warm sort of calm settle down around her shoulders. It wasn't so difficult to live with how she felt when he was being kind, and quiet. The doomsday scenarios felt very far away in that kitchen, with Sirius's feet tangled up with hers, and Teddy's welcome weight halfway into her lap. "And how old are _you,_ Sirius?"

"Eighty-five," Sirius said promptly. Teddy giggled. "Don't feel a day over eighty-four, though."

"Uh huh," Hermione said dryly.

Dinner was eaten without fanfare in the kitchen, other than Harry's effusive dramatic compliments, which only got funnier as the wine bottles got emptier. (Even Hermione struggled to control her smile by the end of the main course.) The highlight of the night was Luna's surprise contribution, a bag of after-dinner mints she'd picked up "somewhere in North America, perhaps, I'm afraid I don't remember where," that turned everyone's hair different colors for a chaotic twenty minutes. Sirius ate two, and badgered her for the rest of the night on where she'd bought them.

"We were actually in São Paulo," Harry told Hermione quietly, leaning against the sink as they washed dishes. Luna and Sirius were still fighting playfully at the table, shouting cheerful things at each other over pie. "Don't tell him."

"Are you kidding? He already brings home loads of free things from George's shop. I'm not giving him any _more_ ideas," Hermione said.

It occurred to her belatedly that the way she'd said this made it sound as if she lived there, as if _home_ were a house she and Sirius _shared,_ but Harry didn't even blink, grinning at her conspiratorially and handing her another clean bowl to dry.

The "Muggle way" of doing things had quickly become a running joke, everything from washing up by hand to lighting the tree with _actual_ candles ("I thought you said bonfires went out of style," Monica said laughingly, watching Sirius and Harry curse at the overly-flammable pine in the drawing room) which was charming, if a bit goofy. But that _was_ sort of Sirius and Harry's speciality; Hermione didn't have the heart to be too stern with them.

Presents were opened by the fire - "Where else?!" Andie exclaimed - and true to their compromise, everyone received one, from either Monica or Hermione, and they were all books. Luna had gone through and carefully picked out the appropriate packages (who knew _how,_ Hermione had actually taken pains to disguise hers in a futile attempt at surprising everyone) and Teddy passed them out one by one, with an air of ceremonial, huffy importance that made Monica cover her mouth with one hand, eyeing Hermione with a teary, nostalgic look that made Hermione cringe a little. (She hadn't been _that_ bad. Had she?)

"Oh, _Hermione,_ " Luna said, upon opening her gift, a rare translation of Iseult Ravenclaw's journals that Hermione had spent months tracking down. A minor figure in the Ravenclaw line, her contributions to history were mostly academic, and as it was the translations were hard to come by. She was one of Luna's favorites, however. "Oh, I can't accept this, it must have cost you a fortune. Oh, how _wonderful._ "

"It didn't," Hermione protested, nudging Luna's hands away as she laughingly tried to give the book back. "The trouble was finding it, not paying for it. Really, it wasn't expensive. It's yours, I won't take it back. I refuse."

"I love it, love it, love it," Luna said enthusiastically, leaning over the discarded wrapping to hug Hermione tightly. "Thank you. I love _you_."

"I love you too," Hermione said, a bit tearfully. She was always rather taken aback by how easily Luna said it, even at the same time that she was honored - and a little surprised - to be included. Part of what made Luna and Harry work so well was that they were both unashamedly open with their feelings - something that always made Hermione a bit uncomfortable, being rather traditionally and British-ly repressed herself. But she was working on being better. "I've wanted to find you a copy for a few years, and it was fun tracking it down. I'm so glad you love it."

"It's perfect," Luna said, sitting back from the hug and wiping away a few tears of her own. She twisted to show the book to Harry, who leaned over her shoulder with a look of such fondness it nearly made Hermione tear up again.

The highlight of the night however was Monica's gift, which was a journal from Harry and Luna, charmed to read back what she'd written out loud. Hermione frowned at first, reminded unpleasantly of the diary horcrux, but Harry cleared his throat nervously and said, "you can choose what voice you want it to read in. I can change the spell for you."

"What voice?" Monica said curiously, entranced by the journal. Teddy was writing his name carefully with a spare quill Sirius had pulled out of his desk for him, and the journal was reading it back over and over, in a tinny female voice with an upper class accent: _Teddy Lupin! Teddy Lupin!_

"We put in - I hope this wasn't presumptuous," Harry said worriedly, kneeling down next to Teddy. He waved his wand gently over the pages, and to everyone's surprise, the voice changed to Hermione's. _Teddy Lupin!_ Monica's face lit up in surprise. "I put in...Mr. Granger's, too. I got his voice from some of those family videos you showed me last summer. I wasn't sure if - it's an awfully personal thing, and I hope I'm not overstepping, but - "

"Can I hear it?" Monica interrupted, her face creased in distress, although her voice stayed even. Andie, sitting next to her, made a sympathetic noise, laying her hand against Monica's elbow.

Harry swallowed hard and nodded, waving his wand again. This time, the journal cried out in Hermione's father's voice: _Teddy Lupin! Teddy Lupin!_ Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, and felt Luna and Sirius instantly react, leaning in closer on either side. Luna touched her arm gently, and Sirius hovered behind her, humming sympathetically under his breath.

"As I said, presumptuous," Harry said, still terribly nervous, but Monica was holding her own cheeks, shaking her head back and forth in amazement and blinking back tears. "I just kept thinking about...well, wizarding portraits, and how so many of us are able to keep a sort of...avatar of people after they're gone. I can go to Hogwarts and talk to Dumbledore's whenever I like, for example. And Andie has Aunt Dottie up in her foyer - and the pictures I have of my parents, they interact with me in a manner of speaking...I tried to come up with something that might be similar for you. I hope it doesn't offend you, Mrs. Granger."

"Oh, Harry," Monica said, deeply emotional. She reached out one of her hands to Harry, who took it with a palpable air of relief. "It's a wonderful thought. It's just - wonderful." She stopped, rather choked up, and Andie squeezed her arm again, her face kind.

"If you don't mind me saying," Sirius cut in, a bit hoarsely, and when Hermione turned to look he was staring at the journal with an odd look on his face, "I would...ration yourself, when it comes to such a thing. No offense, Harry."

"No. I mean, yes, I understand what you mean," Monica said, wiping her face. She looked at Hermione, her face twisting at whatever she saw in her expression, and then turned to look at Harry again. "Can I change the voice myself, or do you have to do it?"

"Anyone with a wand can," Harry said regretfully. "I tried to come up with something so you could do it yourself, but I'm no genius."

"Alright then. Could you...perhaps change it back to Hermione's voice then? Maybe every once in a while, it would be nice to...to hear his voice. But not all the time."

"Of course," Harry rushed to say, and waved his wand again. Hermione felt herself relax minutely as the cadence of the voice changed, even as eerie as it was to hear her own voice echoing in the somberly quiet room: _Teddy Lupin! Teddy Lupin!_ "I'm sorry if I - "

"Don't even think of it. I love it, Harry, I do," Monica said, holding her arms out for a hug. Harry sank into it gratefully. "I'll cherish it for the rest of my life, I swear I will. It's just...difficult, that's all. I know you understand."

"Yes," Harry murmured, making eye contact with Hermione over Monica's shoulder. Hermione smiled at him gently, choking back tears of her own, and some of the anxiety on his face melted away.

The mood of the gathering was a bit more subdued after that, to say the least. Sirius cast a spell on the fire that turned the flames a gentle blue, and made the entire room smell like a forest, sticky pine sap and the earthy scent of soil and greenery. Another bottle of wine was opened - although Harry and Luna were the only ones who accepted refills - and Andie and Teddy retired first when the boy started dozing off into the storybook collection he'd been given by Sirius, a beautiful volume of wizarding fairytales that had, apparently, once belonged to James.

"We'll see you in the morning," Andie said grandly, walking around the room with Teddy shuffling behind her sleepily, kissing every guest on the cheek as she went. "Bright and early! That's when the real presents begin!"

"These are real presents," Luna protested, and laughed a bit tipsily when she stumbled a little as she stood up, reaching out quickly to brace herself against the couch. "Maybe I need to go to bed too."

"What's the point of Christmas Eve, if not for a little indulgence?" Sirius protested. He dodged Andie's kiss playfully, laughing with his signature, bark-like laugh when she grabbed his collar to make him stay still long enough to get him on his forehead. "We didn't even break into Monica's cake."

"That's for tomorrow," Harry said decisively. "Save the best for last."

"Oh, I'm about done in myself," Monica said, rising to her feet as well. She'd been clutching the journal to her stomach tightly ever since Harry gave it to her, and Hermione knew the excuse was mostly a cover so she could retreat to her room alone, to cry a little, and think. "Hermione, I might need your help finding your room again. I know you showed me earlier, but there are so many damn staircases in this house. I'm liable to end up in the neighbor's yard or something."

"Of course, Mum," Hermione said, but Sirius stood up too before she could, stepping forward to offer Monica his arm.

"Allow me," he said. "Hermione, you stay. You slaved over that hot stove all evening - "

Harry barked out a laugh so loud that Luna jumped, pressing her hand to her mouth. Hermione scowled at them both.

" - I daresay you deserve a rest. Please, Mrs. Granger," he said, and Hermione caught her mother wrinkling her nose, "allow me to escort you."

"I'm coming too," Hermione said determinedly, narrowing her eyes at Sirius. "I don't trust him."

"Oi!"

"Party's over then?" Harry said gaily, watching them all amble towards the door. "Well, that's fine. Luna and I can entertain ourselves. Not like we traveled all the way from Brazil - "

"I thought you were in Russia?" Hermione interrupted.

" - well, whatever," Harry said. "It's fine. Always wanted to have a snog in this room."

"Snogging in my house?" Sirius said. "In my mother's drawing room? Harry, I not only condone that, I _encourage_ it. Please defile any room you like, within reason - "

"Oh Merlin," Hermione said, shaking her head. Monica was laughing silently, her hand pressed to her mouth.

" - as in, not anywhere I can see it. Or Hermione. She's a bit squeamish," Sirius finished. "Shall we, Grangers?"

"I am not _squeamish,_ " Hermione protested staunchly, crossing her arms. "I am a _grown up._ "

"What, is that not the same thing?" Sirius asked.

"I'm so glad I came," Monica said, out loud to nobody. She grinned over her shoulder at Harry, who was happily refilling his wine glass, Luna splayed halfway across his lap with her book hovering above her face, the pages slowly turning with little flicks of her wand. "I mean that quite sincerely. This has been one of the best Christmases I've ever had, and it's not even midnight yet."

"Long overdue," Sirius said, a bit darkly, and Hermione turned to look at him, a little startled. "Not that I'm insinuating anything. _Hermione._ About certain people who run away to Rome for the holidays. _Hermiiione._ "

"Shut up," Hermione said. "When are you going to let that go? It's been a year."

"Let what go?" Sirius said, his face carefully blank. Hermione, seeing her opportunity, darted her hand out and smacked him. He yelped loudly.

"As I said," Monica said, smiling fondly, " _one_ of the best. I'm not trying to get ahead of myself or anything."

"No," Sirius said dryly, "wouldn't want _that._ "

Hermione's book had been a gift from Andie, a large tome on spell creation theory that she'd never heard of before, which was a feat in and of itself. Hermione had endured a healthy amount of teasing about big boring books that she had to use featherlight charms to lift, but it really was very interesting. She spent far too long reading it that night, and as a result was woken on Christmas morning by an unpleasant cacophony of banging and yelling and laughing from Harry and Teddy, the former of whom was carrying the latter on his back, running up and down the hallways, determined to wake everyone up as rudely as possible. She was, to say the least, not amused.

Sirius greeted her on the first floor landing, looking a little haggard himself. Mercifully, he had already made coffee. "Morning, darling," he said, handing her a mug. It had just a touch of sugar in it just how she liked, Hermione discovered, which felt like a very intimate gesture, especially considering that they were both in pajamas. "Do you ever get the feeling that Harry regresses to childhood when he's around Teddy? Just a bit?"

Above their heads, they could hear Harry yell-singing _Jingle Bells_ at the top of his lungs while Teddy shrieked with laughter. Loud, angry yelling that sounded like Andie could only barely be heard beneath the raucous. "No," Hermione said innocently, widening her eyes up at Sirius. "Whatever makes you say that?"

"Nothing," Sirius said with a smirk.

Breakfast was goody bread, prepared by Monica, who was already awake - her mother had been waking up at dawn for decades, and not even a magical house could interfere with that habit - and coffee, of course, brewed in Sirius's weird, Victorian-era coffee percolator, which rattled loudly as it boiled and had the unfortunate habit of spewing hot coffee out of its cracked spout (usually at the exact moment someone was leaning over it, to check if it was done). Since you could only make two cups at a time, it took quite a while to make enough for everyone, and by the time everyone finally settled in with their mugs and bowls Teddy was practically vibrating, jittering in place by the Christmas tree, his hair flashing between an anxious yellow and a frustrated red.

"Wait a mo," Sirius said, just as they settled down in the drawing room again. Teddy froze, a gift already in his hands, his face stricken. "Shouldn't we eat first? I mean the food's all warm, and - "

Teddy shrieked, collapsing face down on the carpet, drowning out whatever Sirius was going to say, and the room erupted in laughter. Not even Sirius could keep the joke going after that.

Hermione settled in with her coffee and a small portion of the bread; her grandmother's recipe always made her feel nostalgic, but it was rather sweet, and she always felt a bit disloyal to her dad when she had too much of it. (He'd hated the stuff - always sneaked the lion's share of his portion into Hermione and Monica's bowls.) She was feeling rather melancholy, still a bit off-guard by Harry's gift the night before, but the air in the room was so cheerful and festive, she couldn't manage to hang onto her sadness. Even Monica was laughing merrily, curled up on the couch with Andie, watching Teddy tear into the presents with enthusiasm.

Hermione was given a number of very nice, too expensive, disgustingly thoughtful things; a cashmere shawl from her mother, who knew Hermione's tastes quite well, and another gift from Andie ("Two presents?" Hermione asked accusingly, and Andie just shrugged, grinning), a dress made from material so soft that Hermione rubbed it against her cheek, indulging in the luxury in a way she rarely did.

"Green is your color," Sirius said.

"You said that about purple," Hermione said, folding the dress carefully. It was a summer cut, breezy and light, and she wouldn't wear it for months, but Andie had confessed she couldn't bear to leave it in the shop, it reminded her of Hermione so strongly. "And red. And black. And blue - "

"Maybe everything's your color," Sirius said. He looked at her sidelong, his coffee balanced on one knee. "I never catch you wearing pink, though."

For some reason, that made Hermione's instincts prickle again, and she laughed to cover it up. "Not my favorite," she said.

"Not mine, either. But maybe it would suit you," Sirius said, a strange note to his voice. "Under certain circumstances."

Hermione stared at the side of his face, watching as he drank from his mug, her mouth going dry at the sight of his throat moving as he swallowed. In the back of her head were the camellias on the bed upstairs, the soft pink blossoms that curled down towards the mattress. She hadn't asked her mother about it, but she was certain they would give anyone sleeping beneath them some truly lovely dreams. Happy ending dreams. "Circumstances?"

"Certain ones." Sirius propped his elbow against the arm of his chair, reaching over to run his hand over Hermione's dress, an admiring look on his face. "With your hair down. Maybe some blue as well. It would suit you."

Hermione folded the dress back into its box with shaky hands, not trusting herself to reply. The sheets in the Ocean Room were blue. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, not trusting herself enough to allow a proper look. She didn't trust herself to read into it, either.

He was unnaturally quiet throughout the gifts, a bit reserved in the way he was when he was in a low mood, although he laughed easily enough, and joined in on the teasing when Harry opened his gift from Hermione - surprise surprise - a broom kit. But he was effusive in his thanks over her mother's gift - a few volumes of poetry, and a novel by a contemporary Muggle author Hermione didn't recognize - and when he opened Hermione's gift, he looked up from the gift wrapping to give her a searing, knowing look that made her flush head to toe. (Although whether she felt exposed, or humiliated, or both - she couldn't quite tell.)

"My girl," he said, which didn't help, "you hate this writer."

"Tia Dogwood?" Harry said, reading over Sirius's shoulder. "Ugh. She was such a hag."

"You knew her?" Andie asked, intrigued. "I knew she was at Hogwarts 'round the same time as you lot, but I thought she was a Ravenclaw."

"Hermione had Ancient Runes with her. She was terrible," Harry insisted, looking over at Hermione with a sly, curious look, like he was asking her a silent question. "She used to tease Hermione relentlessly, always tried to show her up in class, even though we were three years younger. They grouped the years together, you see, because Babbling couldn't scrape together enough students for a full class - "

"Professor Babbling, Harry," Hermione corrected half-heartedly, feeling terribly ashamed of herself suddenly, although she couldn't figure out why.

"She was very mean to the younger students," Luna said lightly. Her voice was neutral, but Hermione felt judged anyway, squirming in her seat. "Nobody liked her much. Although she makes quite a lot of money off her novels now, to my understanding."

"Sirius likes her books," Hermione protested, trying hard not to sound defensive. "Even though they're terrible. But who am I to judge his taste?" She smiled weakly.

The author's photo squawked in outrage, and Sirius narrowed his eyes at it, flipping the book upside down to muffle it. "Funny," he said flatly. "You find that very easy to do, _most_ of the time. And I never said I liked her."

"You own every single one of her novels!" Hermione said. "You teased me about it - "

"I never said I _read_ them! Ask Andie, they came from her house," Sirius said, narrowing his eyes at Hermione. Andie's eyes went wide at her own name, and she shrugged helplessly at Hermione, shaking her head frantically. "I never teased you about her."

"You did!"

"Well, I don't remember."

"Well, that doesn't mean it didn't happen," Hermione said, feeling her cheeks flushed. They weren't seriously arguing, but there was a tension in the room she knew the others could feel, especially in how they were all politely not looking over, preoccupying themselves with their own gifts. "Fine, you don't like it. I'll get you something else then - "

"Don't get upset," Sirius said, moving the book away before she could grab it. Hermione flushed again, this time in offense, at the condescending implication. "Look, you bought it for me, I'll read it. I just didn't think _you_ liked her books, so I reacted strangely - I'm sorry - "

"Well I don't want you to read it if you know you're not going to like it," Hermione said, irritated. Sirius shot her a weird look, sliding the book beneath the stack from Monica, his movements jerky and stiff, like he was upset too. "I'm sorry," she said, softening her voice. The others in the room were talking loudly and conspicuously, trying valiantly to ignore their tiff, and Hermione felt uncomfortably exposed. "It was meant to be a joke, like a - a way for you to tease me. I didn't mean to - "

"Why would I tease you about a girl who bullied you?" he interrupted, not quite meeting her eyes. "I don't tease you about things like that. Do I?"

"No," Hermione admitted, with some effort. "I - I don't know why we're fighting. Are you angry?"

"We're not fighting," Sirius said roughly, as if he were holding back some emotion by force. "Are we?"

Hermione shook her head slowly, unsure and upset. She felt the urge to leave, a powerful impulse that she knew would be cowardly, and definitely turn this into an actual fight. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said again, looking down at his hands. He rubbed them together, and Hermione noticed that his tattoos were jittering anxiously, the colors morphing and changing in a way that matched Teddy's hair, whenever the boy was upset or scared. "You have nothing to apologize for. I didn't mean to...assume, I just thought - "

A peal of laughter from Teddy cut him off, and he pulled back, leaning back in his chair and busying himself with his coffee cup (which had to be empty, Hermione thought). Hermione sat there, stricken, and found herself wondering desperately: _assume what? He's been assuming?!_

The shine was gone then, for Hermione at least, and she found herself dreading opening Sirius's gift, which had been sitting innocuously by her knee since Teddy had presented it to her. ("To Aunt My," he'd said grandly, "it's from Uncle Pad. He told me not to drop it so I didn't.") She struggled to keep a smile on her face as the others whittled down their piles - Andie received so many scarves from everyone she'd started hanging them from the lamps, and Harry had a veritable mountain of Quidditch-related supplies growing next to his elbow - until Luna finally nudged her, reaching behind her with her wand tucked behind her ear and poking Hermione's leg.

"Hermione has one left," she said. "From Sirius."

"Oh yes, open it!" Monica said. She had on one of Andie's scarves, and her gift from Luna, which was a jaunty pillbox hat in a brilliant shade of orange. She looked like a disheveled guest at a garden party. "I want to see what it is."

"Nothing special," Sirius said, who had retreated to the floor with Teddy. He hadn't met Hermione's eyes since their weird, tense conversation about the book. "Don't get your hopes up, Hermione."

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the gruff sentiment. She had been _trying._ "Well," she said, "I suppose I should."

"Looks like jewelry," Andie teased, although she looked altogether unsurprised when Hermione unwrapped what was clearly the box for a necklace. "Tell me you didn't just dig something out of the attic for her, Sirius."

"I'm not trying to murder her," Sirius protested. "I got it from the Potter vault."

"You got it from - oh," Harry said, cutting off mid-sentence, shooting a loud look in Sirius's direction. "Right."

"I can't accept something that should be Harry's," Hermione said anxiously, cradling the box in trembling hands. Harry snorted loudly, rolling his eyes effusively. "This should be Luna's."

"I'm not one for jewelry," Luna said ludicrously. Her gigantic, snowflake-shaped earrings jangled loudly each time her head moved.

"Hermione, most of the stuff in there is his," Harry protested. "Most of my parents's stuff was at Godric's Hollow, so it was seized by the Ministry, remember? But Sirius kept all of his inheritance and valuables in my dad's vault during the war, so it would be safe. Relax about it."

"I still don't feel right about - "

"Just open it," Sirius said abruptly, startling Hermione into silence. "You can try to argue us out of it, but take a look before you reject it, at least."

A bit hurt by the curtness, Hermione bit her lip and opened the box, nearly choking on her gasp at the beautiful necklace that lay inside on a bed of velvet. It looked old - of course it was, if it was an heirloom - and it was silver, delicate chains that interlocked to form an art deco style shape that Hermione imagined would lay perfectly against the hollow of a throat. There were blue stones embedded at even intervals on the main circle of the chain, and a diamond as its centerpiece - small, but clearly authentic. Hermione touched it gently, her heart frozen.

"Sirius," she managed, "this is - "

"Beautiful," Luna said dreamily, leaning her chin against Hermione's shoulder. "Oh! Moonstones!"

"Good for protection," Andie said, smiling slyly over her coffee mug.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's gorgeous," Monica said.

"It was Aunt Dottie's," Harry said, nudging Hermione's leg meaningfully. Hermione was too distracted - she barely even noticed. "She gave it to Sirius as part of his inheritance when Alphard died."

"Right," Andie said fondly, "the flapper necklace! She said it was a gift from Zelda Fitzgerald herself. We never really worked out if she were joking or lying - "

"She wasn't lying," Sirius said. "At least, James and I believed her."

"How incredible," Monica said, marveling. "I suppose anyone who was involved in the literary circles back then must have met them - Zelda and Scott - they were quite the socialites. But what stories she must've had! What a _life_."

"My dear, you must take me up on my offer to visit," Andie said. "You and Dottie would get along wonderfully."

"I can't accept this," Hermione said, making eye contact with Sirius over Luna and Harry's heads. The room quieted, and Sirius looked away, refusing to meet her gaze. "It's too precious to you, Sirius. I couldn't possibly."

"I had quite a lot of precious things in my life, Hermione," Sirius said somberly, rubbing his chin. Teddy was in his lap, his eyes wide, looking between Sirius and Hermione with a childish sort of fascination that she remembered from being young herself - knowing that important things were being said, but not quite understanding why they were important. "I lost nearly all of them. I did everything I could to protect them, and still, I lost them." He cleared his throat, his hands twisting nervously against the carpet. "Life is too short to lock them away in vaults and closets, anyway. It's a beautiful necklace, and Dottie would want someone to wear it. I want _you_ to wear it."

"But don't you want to save it for - " Hermione stopped before the words could slip out, but she could see that Sirius had heard them. His face twisted again, like it had earlier when he was staring at his hands. _I didn't mean to assume._ "It is beautiful," she said weakly. "I've never been given anything this beautiful before."

"Now that is a tragedy," Sirius said roughly. The air in the room was awkward, and Hermione looked desperately at Harry and Luna, who were sitting quietly, watching with wide eyes that looked very similar to Teddy's. "Save it, then. Keep it for when you're married. You can add it to your husband's family vaults, pass it down to your children. Or whatever."

The air in the room dropped. "I'm sorry?" Hermione said. "For my _husband's family?_ "

"Ohh-kay," Harry said delicately, his eyebrows shooting to the top of his head. "Guys - "

"I didn't mean it like that," Sirius said, ignoring Harry completely. "I just meant - "

"To give me a bloody _dowry?_ " Hermione said, fiercely outraged all of a sudden. She snapped the box shut. "Sorry, I didn't know you were interested in _subsidizing_ my love life, Sirius. What year is it? 1840?"

"Hermione," Monica said, gently chastising. She didn't get very far, however.

"It was just a suggestion," Sirius said. "Do whatever you like with it! That's what gifts are for. Sell it at Borgin and Burke's for all I care."

"Sirius!" Andie said, jumping in as well. Sirius twisted to glare at her, and Teddy scrambled out of his lap, running over to Harry and Luna instead, as if trying to escape the line of fire.

Hermione stood up, her heart pounding, before this could unravel any further. "Sirius, can I speak to you in the other room for a moment?" she said tightly. She glared at Harry, who looked as if he were gearing up to say something. " _Alone_."

Sirius muttered something under his breath, but stood up to follow her easily enough. Hermione held onto her anger long enough to escape the room - and the wide eyes within it - and pulled Sirius into the corridor, practically frog-marching him towards the stairs.

"Where do you mean to go, Hermione?" Sirius asked, a bit meanly. He pulled his hand from her grip and changed direction abruptly, walking towards the small bedroom where he'd slept the previous night. For a surreal second, Hermione thought he was going to pull her into it, but instead he marched out into the small garden on the back of the house, a magically-added little oasis that was barely enough for a small bush and a struggling lemon tree. Hermione braced for the smack of cold, winter air, but he must have done some sort of warming charm on it to protect the plants - the air was balmy, unnaturally so. "You can scold me just as well right here."

"I don't mean to scold you," Hermione protested. "That was just - insensitive, what you said, and I didn't want to argue in front of everyone - "

"Insensitive? _You're_ lecturing me about insensitivity?"

Hermione bristled. "I'm not lecturing. I thought we could both use a breather. I'll just leave you to your cigarette, shall I?" She nodded at the pack he'd pulled out of his shirt pocket. Not that he'd lit it yet - he was simply tapping it against his leg, looking restless, but he snorted at that, looking her in the eye with a stubborn look on his face. "But yes, it was insensitive. My _husband's family,_ Sirius, really?"

"I just said it," Sirius said, sounding a bit defensive, "I didn't think about it. I didn't mean it."

"Then don't say things you don't mean!"

"Or give gifts that make you uncomfortable?"

"It didn't - the necklace is beautiful, I didn't mean to be ungrateful, or imply I didn't like it - "

"But you didn't like it," Sirius concluded, and pulled a cigarette out. He turned away, a sharp movement on one heel, and leaned over to light it with the tip of his wand. "Well, you don't have to accept it. I'll put it right back in Harry's vault, and he can pass it down to his grandkids or whatever."

"I didn't say that either!" Hermione resisted the urge to stomp her foot. "I don't even know why we're arguing. No wait - " she crossed her arms across her chest, "I do. You didn't like _my_ gift, and you're still angry with me - "

"Your _joke_ gift?" Sirius whirled around. "No, Hermione, I didn't like it. Why would you think I would?"

"Why does it bother you so much?" Hermione demanded. "Sorry it wasn't perfect, Sirius, but not all of us have family vaults to rifle through when we need gift ideas - "

Sirius snorted loudly, which was fair, because that was a cheap shot, and Hermione regretted it as soon as it left her mouth. She knew very well why he hadn't liked the book, after all. And she'd had plenty of better gift ideas, that she'd deliberately _stopped_ herself from choosing. "A book you bought to make fun of yourself. To encourage me to make fun of you. And you're, what, _offended_ that I didn't like it? What kind of man do you think I am?"

Hermione snapped her mouth shut, struck into silence.

Sirius's face turned forlorn, a strange pain spreading across it that made Hermione feel almost faint. "Look," he said, "I get it. I understand. I'm sorry if I read into things. Is that what you want to hear? Or do you want me to humiliate myself even more?"

"Humiliate - what?" Hermione blinked back tears. "Sirius, what the hell are you talking about?"

"What the hell are _you_ talking about?" Sirius demanded. "Why did you pull me out here?"

"Because I hate when you're angry with me!"

"Well, I hate it too!" Sirius shouted back, and they broke apart, taking deep steps away from each other, both of their chests heaving with emotion. Hermione felt herself waver and she turned away sharply, not wanting him to see her cry, and he made a helpless noise of distress, an almost-word that sounded like the first syllable of her name. If one were being generous.

She could feel his eyes on her back, and smell the smoke from his cigarette, although he threw it out after a second - she could hear him grinding it against the brick-layered patio with his heel. "Hermione," he said hoarsely, and she felt his hand tentatively on her back. She stiffened in surprise, and he immediately took it away, leaving a warm spot on her shoulder that felt overexposed, tingling in the absence of touch. "I'm sorry. Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry too," she said, wiping her eyes. She took one deep breath, then two, and then turned around, keeping her eyes on his arms and hands, instead of his face. "You were right about the book. I had better things I wanted to give you. I just didn't."

"Why?"

 _Because I'm afraid,_ she didn't say. She bit her lip and stared, unable to come up with better words.

He sighed after a moment, heavily. "The flowers were too much. I made you uncomfortable."

"No?" Hermione frowned. "I loved the flowers. My mother loved them."

"They weren't for your mother, Hermione," Sirius said, and the gravity in his voice finally made Hermione raise her eyes. His face was nothing like she'd seen before - open and tender, in a way that made her stomach quiver. "You don't have to say anything. A lonely old man - reading into things - I didn't mean to make you - "

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, and pitched forward before he could say any more nonsense, winding her hands in the collar of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss. She didn't think about it beforehand - simply did it - and for a moment she froze, overwhelmed with panic when he staggered forward and simply hovered there, his mouth pressed stiffly against hers, his hands floating a few inches above her back, not quite making contact. But then something seemed to shift inside of him - Hermione could almost feel his pulse kicking up a few notches - and he slid his palms around the small of her back and pulled her upwards, deepening the kiss with a rough noise in the back of his throat.

She could feel the scrape of his beard against her chin as they kissed, his hands pulling her upwards by her waist, almost lifting her toes up off the ground. Hermione had a fleeting thought - _what if someone comes to look for us -_ that drifted away like glitter in the wind. It was as if time drifted away - the whole _world_ drifted away - in favor of the warm solidness of his body, which felt like the only body she'd ever touched, the only mouth she'd ever kissed, even though that wasn't true. She made a soft, moaning noise, quiet but loud in the silence, and it made him clutch her more tightly, his kisses trailing down from her mouth to her cheek, the hinge of her jaw, beneath the curve of her ear. Hermione clutched his shoulders and thought of every night she'd left this house early, forcing herself to ignore his insistent requests for her to stay - the flowers on her bed - the care and attention of his conversation - the warm regard of his gaze, on the other side of the kitchen table - and she felt very dizzy, and very stupid. Very weak, in the tight circle of his arms, but not in a bad way. It was the scariest, loveliest she'd ever felt in her life.

"Precious," Hermione blurted, as his breath evened out to match hers, his mouth pressed sweetly against the side of her neck. He twitched. "You were saying _I'm_ precious. To you."

"Obviously," he rumbled, kissing her ear once more. His hands had found their way beneath her shirt, and they were cool against the skin of her back. "You really don't have to keep the necklace."

"I _love_ the necklace."

"Well," he said, and paused. He pulled his face back, and to Hermione's delight, he looked oddly flustered. "No offense. Or anything. But you seem to be sending me some mixed signals. So if you could be direct about it, I would appreciate it."

"I didn't know I was sending signals," Hermione said helplessly, pulling his shirt collar hastily back into place. "You know how terrible I am at this sort of thing." The movement turned into more of a caress as she discovered a previously unknown tattoo on his chest, normally hidden by his shirts - a stylized rune that looked older, older than his prison tattoos even. "What does this mean?"

Sirius swallowed, his throat moving beneath her fingers. " _Eihweh,_ " he said unevenly. "Family of choice. I got it when I was sixteen."

Hermione found herself overwhelmed by both his voice, and the sentiment, and leaned her forehead against his chest, pressing a long kiss against the ink.

"Hermione," he said, low and meaningful, brushing one of his hands against her hair. Hermione turned her head to press her cheek against his skin instead, feeling a great well of emotion welling up inside of her - tentative happiness, disbelief, fear, desire. She trembled against him, not wanting to move just yet. Or ever, maybe. "I've lived a strange life - "

"To say the least," Hermione mumbled. He squeezed her in playful admonishment, and she shut up.

"To find myself back here, in this house, is the strangest," Sirius said. "Is what I meant to say. What I was going to say, when I gave you the necklace. I had a speech and everything - "

"In front of my mother?" Hermione said, jerking her head up. "In front of _Harry?_ "

"It was subtle!" Sirius protested. "I was going to tell you, that you helped make it good again. The house, I mean. My family. I never thought I would want to stay here, to live amongst all this history, but...there were good things that happened here too. People I loved - Alphard and Dottie, for instance. Regulus." He swallowed again, leaning his forehead against hers, lacing his fingers together in the small of her back. "I'll never forgive them, but I did love them. Remembering them doesn't hurt as much as remembering - "

Hermione hushed him as he broke off painfully, tracing the lines of his cheekbones with her fingertips. She felt overwhelmed, pressed down by the heaviness of the moment, like she was in church.

"When I think about the future," he continued, after a trembling moment, "I think of...all these bedrooms. People visiting, coming to stay. Children running through the halls - Bill and Fleur's girls, and Teddy, and Harry's, if he ever settles in one spot long enough to father them, that is - I want to be the place where people gather, where people eat together and raise their children - in a house where I was once in so much pain - isn't that a way of healing? Isn't that how I could...build something new?"

Hermione was nodding, tears slipping down her face silently. "I want that too," she said. "I want to be there with you."

"I want you with me," he said, half-choked, and kissed her again. Hermione's toes curled in her slippers and she clutched at his neck, hearing herself make desperate noises as he pulled at her waist, as if he could pull her any closer than she already was. "I wanted so many things, I wasn't sure if I was imagining that you wanted them too. I would've been happy enough to have you here at all, even if you'd brought a husband. Or children of your own. I would've taken anything, Hermione. Anything you were willing to give."

"I'm not going to go off and marry someone else just so you can prove a point about how lonely you are," Hermione half-joked, and Sirius huffed out a wet laugh, nuzzling the side of her face. "I love you. Have I said that yet? I feel as if I have. Like I've been saying it all along."

"Well, you were very quiet," Sirius said dryly. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, laughing weakly. "I thought it would be so obvious - the flowers. Andie made fun of me. I wanted to make love to you beneath them. It's all I could think about, for days. Weeks. Your hair spread across the bed, petals against your skin." He pressed his palm gently against her cheek, his face impossibly tender. "I was sure it was too forward."

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. "Sometimes, Sirius," she said haltingly, "you are so Victorian it drives me mad. A bed made of flowers? Ridiculous. Of course it was obvious." She reached up and kissed him again, a careful press of lips against his chin. "I was just scared."

"Of me?"

Hermione shook her head, lost for words once more. Sirius seemed to understand, pulling her back into an embrace, leaning his chin against the crown of her head.

She sighed after a minute, feeling airy and unbalanced, as if she were floating on a cloud. "My mother is sleeping in there. So we'll have to wait at least one night."

Sirius laughed. "The charm is easy once you learn it," he said. "I'll put flowers everywhere, if you want. Roses on every headboard. I'll build you a bed for every room in the house."

"A little excessive."

"Irises for my room, I think. Yellow ones. Tulips in the Common Room. Clovers in the library. Ivy in the kitchen."

"I like this lemon tree," Hermione said, reaching out to pluck one of the leaves. "Have I ever told you? It would do better on the other side of the house, I think. More sun."

"Orange blossoms," Sirius said, with the solemnity of a vow, "jonquil. Spanish jasmine."

"Lavender would be nice," Hermione said, angling her head up to press her nose against his. "Maybe some honeysuckle, on the vine."

"Whatever you want," Sirius swore. Hermione smiled at him, unable to hold back a joyful laugh. "Blue lilies in the garden. I always promised myself that I would plant lilies somewhere. James and Lily could never keep them alive. Their front stoop always smelled like rotting flowers. Drove us all mad."

"I can help with that," Hermione promised.

The issue of how to rejoin the others became more troublesome the longer they stayed on the patio, talking quietly and intensely, holding hands as they watched the sun crawl higher and higher in the sky. Hermione wasn't opposed to the idea of just walking back inside hand-in-hand and getting all the teasing over with, but Sirius had some terribly old-fashioned ideas about speaking to Monica first. In private, he insisted. 

"Sirius," Hermione said narrowly, "are you going to ask my mum permission to _court_ me?"

"No," he said cagily, not meeting her eyes. 

She huffed. "We could swing by my dad's grave to really make it official," she said. "You could ask for my hand, and offer him a token of your commitment, or what the bloody hell ever."

"Isn't that what the necklace was? Ow!" He flinched as she smacked him. "I don't think you're allowed to hit me now."

"I actually think this means I can hit you more. As in, whenever I want."

"Dating _has_ changed since I was young," Sirius muttered, but he kept a firm grip on her thigh with his free hand, and he kept looking over at her like he couldn't believe his luck. Hermione was finding it very difficult to hold it against him. 

In the end, she simply sent him on down to the kitchen, when they both realized it was getting close to noon, and Harry surely must have gotten into the pistachio cake by now. "Save me a piece," she said sternly, and he kissed her nose.

"I'll save you two."

"One with not so much frosting, but lots of almonds," Hermione insisted. He nodded gravely, as if she were giving him orders on a battlefield. "Don't care about the raspberries though."

"Can't stand the things either," he agreed. "Strawberries are better."

It was amazing, truly, to finally be on the same page. Hermione beamed at him as he jogged back inside, clutching her hands to her chest, feeling as if she were keeping her heart inside of her body by sheer force of will. Surely, the minute she forgot herself, it would burst out of her chest in happiness and explode into smitten pieces all over the patio. 

She went back inside bravely - refusing to sneak - only to find the drawing room abandoned, the presents neatly lined up in little piles by the still-burning fireplace. But there was music playing softly in the library - Sirius's gramophone, surely - and the distinctive highs and lows of Luna and Andie's voices. That was two accounted for - and surely Teddy and Harry were down in the kitchen - so Hermione squared her shoulders and went upstairs, her feet carrying her with surety to the soft oak door of the Ocean Room. 

Her mother was sitting by the window, the journal from Harry on her lap. She looked up at Hermione's entrance and her face did something very complicated, before it settled into a soft smile. Reaching out her hand, she beckoned. "Don't look so scared," she said. "It's just me, sweetheart."

She was right. It _was_ just her mum. Hermione took a deep breath, and joined her on the window seat. 

The flowers hadn't lost any of their brightness - or their scent - overnight, and Hermione was desperately curious about the charm he'd mentioned, as well as what it had been like to sleep beneath them, but she held her tongue. The expression on Monica's face looked rather fragile, and when she squeezed Hermione's shoulder in greeting, her grip felt weaker than usual - almost absent-minded. 

"I'm sorry if that was awkward," Hermione finally said, breaking the silence. "We mended things, though."

"I imagine you did," Monica said. She tilted her head at Hermione, flipping the cover of the journal closed with gentle care. "Hermione, my love. He's such a good man."

Hermione nodded, her heart in her throat. Of course her mum already knew. 

"But he's so much older than you."

"Yes," she said, not bothering to deny it. "I've loved him half my life, Mum. Sometimes it feels like it's always been there."

Monica closed her eyes briefly, nodding. Of course she already knew that too.

"He's always been very good to me. Respectful. He's never pushed, or crossed the line. He never did anything untoward either, when I was younger. It's important to me that you know that."

"You fought in the war together," Monica said. Hermione nodded again. "He saved your life. Harry told me that."

"A few times, yes. Harry and Ron's, too."

"I suppose I can never understand such a thing," Monica said, tremulously, "nor could I hope to understand the way you feel. I was always more hesitant in love. I think you know that about me." She paused, pressing her fingers to her mouth. "I didn't meet your father until I was older. And it took me such a long time to come around to him. I had to be talked into it. I suppose that makes me cold, in a way - "

"No, Mum," Hermione said, reaching out for her hand, "you're not _cold._ You're not."

"Yes, I know, I just mean - it's different for me. I loved your father, Hermione - oh, I loved him madly. But I was more cautious than you are. More inwardly focused. You're so much more selfless, and giving, than I could ever hope to be. I've always admired that about you - the way you live with your whole heart. How warm you are with your friends, how generous you can be. It doesn't surprise me at all - not even a little bit - that a man like this would fall in love with you. A man with great pain, but such a great capacity for love, as well."

Hermione felt tears threaten again, and leaned down to kiss the back of her mother's hand. She could hear Monica breathing in and out with steady effort, as if she were holding back tears as well. 

"Your grandmother would think it was very funny," Monica said after a moment. She laughed. "And your father - forget about it."

Hermione's heart squeezed. "Do you think he would disapprove?"

"No. I think he would have been proud of you. Just on principle. He always got quite excited about those letters your teachers sent home, about all the trouble you and the boys got into." Monica laughed again, covering her mouth with one hand. "An older man - a felon! And he even has a motorcycle. Oh God, Hermione - "

Hermione laughed along, struck suddenly by the absurdity of it. "He's quite well off though - but not _rich_ rich. He even has a seat in the wizarding Parliament he never uses."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not!"

"So he's literally..." Monica sputtered with laughter. "Oh God, it's like a novel. The beatnik noble. The black sheep of the royal family. Like Princess Margaret!" She pulled Hermione closer by one hand, bending over with the force of her laughter. "He would've loved that. He would've laughed his arse off."

Hermione pitched forward, into a hug that came about naturally, Monica's arms coming up around her and squeezing tight. "God Mum, I miss him so much. I miss him every day."

"Me too." Monica's grip slowly tightened, encouraged perhaps, by the fact that Hermione had initiated it. "The journal is a bit..."

"Creepy?" Hermione said. Monica slumped over, laughing again. "Yes, Harry can be a little...I mean, he means well!"

"What would I even write!" Monica cried. "God. Make up something he might have said, and then make it...read it out loud to me, like some kind of...I don't even know what to compare it to. Oh God, it was so sweet, though. I was truly, _so_ touched. He was so _nervous._ "

"I was mostly crying because it was so nice of him," Hermione admitted. "Do you want me to change it back to the neutral voice? The one that sounds like Judi Dench?"

" _Please,_ " Monica said. 

Whatever Sirius had said to Harry, it was apparently enough to stop the teasing for now - although the moment Hermione and Monica walked into the kitchen, Harry looked up from his cake, wide-eyed at Hermione, like he'd just walked in on her naked or something. Hermione groaned and pulled Monica away, towards the icebox, but she was already laughing, her head tilted back in mirth at the matching, shell-shocked looks on Sirius and Harry's faces. 

"They're going to be insufferable," Hermione whispered fiercely, leaning over the sink with her mother, "oh _God_. Oh Mum - oh _no._ I just realized something - "

"What?" 

"We're going to have to tell _Mrs. Weasley,_ " Hermione said, which set her mother off laughing again. Well, Hermione supposed the reaction could be worse. 

Sirius flinched a little as they both sat down, eyeing Monica sideways, like he was afraid she was going to burst into tears or start yelling or something (or both, Hermione thought dryly). But he slid a cake slice over to Hermione bravely, with only one raspberry, but so many almonds he had to have filched from the other pieces. "Here you are, love." 

Harry shot him a wide-eyed look at the endearment, looking over at Monica, altogether seeming a bit terrified. Hermione rolled her eyes at them both. 

"Thanks," she said. "Did you have some already?"

Sirius was nursing another cup of coffee; the only other plate on the table was Harry's. "Not hungry yet. Maybe after supper."

"What is the plan for that?" Monica asked, and Hermione had to admit - it _was_ a little funny, the way both men winced at her voice. She took a happy bite of cake, valiantly fighting back a smile. "Leftovers? We could whip up some sandwiches or something."

"Leftovers? On Christmas Day?" Sirius sounded appalled. "No. We're sending out for curry." Harry snorted. 

"The good stuff, I hope," Monica said mildly. She was eyeing Harry, who seemed to be alternating between extreme bliss about the cake, and equally extreme, awkward distress about the current grouping of people watching him eat it. 

"Only the best," Sirius allowed. "That was _my_ holiday tradition, you know. James and Lily's and mine." 

Hermione smiled, watching Harry's reaction, but he just smiled a little to himself. Sirius had probably already told this story at some point, then. "Oh?"

"We shared a flat together, before they got married," Sirius said. His eyes were faraway, as they often were when he spoke about that time in his life. "This terrible one-bedroom in Canary Wharf. Barely enough room for the three of us. Lily and James had the bedroom and I slept on a bedroll in the living room. You know, like a vagabond."

"Or a beatnik," Monica said slyly. Hermione coughed a laugh into her arm. 

"Well, that's a flattering way to put it, but I suppose," Sirius said, with a curious smile. "None of us could afford anything better. I was trying to make my inheritance last as long as possible, and James didn't inherit the cottage until his grandfather died, and that was only...what, a year before Harry was born?" Sirius nudged Harry's shoulder. "If things had been different, you'd have spent the first year of your life in a London council flat, kid."

"Would've been nice," Harry said wistfully. "Can you imagine if I'd grown up in the city? I'd have a much cooler accent."

Sirius snorted.

"Did you work?" Monica asked. "With the...first war, I imagine it was difficult."

"Lily did," Sirius said. "She had an apprenticeship with a potions lab in Diagon Alley. Didn't pay much though. James and I had some half-baked ideas about Auror training, but the reality of the Ministry back then was fairly grim - half the Departments were stacked with Pureblood purists, or associated with them - none of us could be sure who was a Death Eater and who wasn't - "

"Sounds a lot like the Ministry we grew up with," Hermione said to Harry, who huffed with slightly bitter, ironic laughter.

"They'd only just barely moved into Godric's Hollow when you were born," Sirius said, nudging Harry again. "We were all so young. James Floo'd me in a panic one night the first winter they were there, because he couldn't figure out how to turn on the heat. Lily bought all these Muggle magazines and tried to decorate, but she'd lose interest halfway through, so the whole cottage looked like a half-finished art project." Sirius laughed, rubbing his chin, his eyes bright with the memory. "But it was wonderful. I had a room there - Lily insisted. I wasn't there much, with the war, but - " he broke off painfully, and Hermione clutched her fork tightly, resisting the urge to reach out to him. 

"It sounds lovely," Monica said gently, her eyes terribly sad. 

"It was," Sirius said shortly, clearly trying to gather himself. Even Harry had stopped eating, his hands clasped gently on top of the table, his shoulder leaning in ever-so-slightly against Sirius's. "We were all living off the scraps of our parents, because none of us could work. Not just because we didn't have the time, fighting as we did for the Order, but because nobody would hire us. Things were so different back then - everyone thought Voldemort would win. There was no hope, no resistance, other than Dumbledore's... _machinations_ , in the dark. They all knew what we believed - what our politics were - even if we'd had the time and energy to get jobs, nobody would've had us. It was as if everyone were already preparing for the inevitable - for what life would be like, under Voldemort."

Hermione shuddered, meeting Harry's eyes briefly. He looked grave. "Better than what it was like for us in some ways," Harry said, "but also much worse. I can't imagine it."

"I'm glad you'll never have to," Sirius said. 

"So - traditions?" Hermione asked. "Curry on Christmas?"

"Any takeaway we could find, really," Sirius said. "One year - Remus was visiting at the time, so it was special - we had pizza. James had no idea how big they were, and ordered six of the large ones, one for each of us - he even got one for you, Harry, even though you were barely five months old! Lily wrote me later and said they were eating leftovers for weeks."

 _Six_ , Hermione thought. _Remus, James, Lily, Sirius, little Harry, and..._ she shuddered again. 

"That was our last Christmas together before they died," Sirius said, confirming Hermione's suspicion. He cleared his throat conspicuously, meeting Hermione's eyes for a fleeting moment before looking back down at the table, clearly trying to get through the conversation with some sort of composure. Hermione's heart ached for him. "None of us could cook back then, you see. That's a skill I've picked up in adulthood."

"My first Christmas," Harry said soberly, having clearly come to the same conclusion as Hermione. He grinned though, in the next moment. "Pizza. That's kind of wicked, actually." Sirius smiled at him. 

"I know a good pizza place," Monica said suddenly. Sirius looked over at her, startled, but with that same smile he'd turned on Hermione in the garden, as if he couldn't believe something good was happening to him. "Not far from here. My husband and I - Hermione's father - " she faltered a little, but recovered nobly. "We always used to stop there when we were in the city."

"Oh!" Hermione said. "The place with the breadsticks! Yes, that's not far, is it?"

"Just a few Tube stops away." Monica looked over at Sirius, slyly. "You do know how to take the Tube, don't you?"

To his credit, Sirius didn't boast. He only smiled a little, and nodded. "Shall we go together?" he asked.

Monica's sly look widened into a grin. "Hermione can stay here."

Hermione dropped her fork. "I don't know if that's - "

"Capital idea," Sirius said, grinning now. "We have a lot to talk about, I should think."

Harry choked on a piece of cake, bending over double, wheezing. Hermione scowled at him, unable to tell if he were laughing, or in the process of choking to death. 

"You'll need an extra pair of hands," Hermione pointed out, through gritted teeth, "if you're going to get enough for everybody - "

"Hermione," Sirius said, "isn't that what my wand is for?" Monica burst into a sudden peal of laughter, and Hermione's scowl deepened. 

There was no arguing with them after that. Harry caught Hermione's eye, in the bustle of their departure, and smirked, one eyebrow raised. Hermione made a face at him and only barely resisted the urge to hex his hair green to match his bright, neon cast - she rather thought she'd shown heroic restraint by not making fun of him for it once, by Luna's request - and he just grinned. 

_Insufferable,_ Hermione thought. She was fairly certain she couldn't wait. 

Up on the ground floor, Hermione fluttered behind them as they left, weakly trying to convince them to take her along - playing it up mostly because her mother found her distress about it all very funny, if Hermione was being honest - and Sirius caught her eye as he shrugged into his coat, darting a nervous look over at Monica before pulling her close to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. 

Hermione froze, feeling very weird with her mother standing right there, but after a moment she relaxed. They were all going to have to get used to it, after all. 

"No pepperoni," Sirius said, his tone tilted up at the end like a halfhearted question. 

"That's right," Hermione said, smiling softly. She looked over at Monica, who was pulling her hair out from beneath her coat collar, a very weird smile on her face. "Don't let my mum pay. She's going to try."

"I'm a guest, it's polite," Monica insisted.

"Pretty sure it's the other way around," Sirius said grandly. He offered his arm to Monica after a slight hesitation, and after an equally tentative moment, Monica smiled and took it. "Shall we?"

"We surely shall," Monica said, looking over her shoulder at Hermione briefly as they walked out the door. Hermione pushed the door shut behind them, refusing to stare out the window while they ambled down the walk. Some things were far too anxious, even for her. 

Faced with the choice of an awkwardly smug Harry in the kitchen, or the cheerful, slightly raucous laughter from Andie, Teddy, and Luna in the drawing room, Hermione chose the latter - but not before getting caught by the coat rack, which had reached down in an attempt to take the shawl she was wearing - her Christmas gift from her mother. Hermione shrieked in surprise and jumped back, one hand on her chest, narrowing her eyes at the thing, which swung its arms back into place mildly. If she didn't know better, she'd say it had a distinct air of smugness. She narrowed her eyes at it. 

"Oh, we are definitely getting rid of you," she vowed, and then stopped short at the presumption. Was it a presumption? She'd have to think about it. Either way, the question felt like a happy one. A hopeful open-ended answer, something warm and lovely to think about. 

She was caught, in the next moment, by a frame mounted on the wall by the door, something she hadn't really paid much attention to before. Leaning closer, she snorted when she realized what it was - a piece of charred wood, obviously from a fire. The Great Black Bonfire, as Harry and Sirius had been calling it. They'd burned every Black portrait they could pry off the walls, save for a few ancestors in the basement - apparently Sirius had _some_ affection for the French branch of the family - and a distant cousin that Sirius referred to affectionately as "L.P." No Christmas was Christmas without a bonfire, to be fair. They'd gotten so smashed in the process neither of them could Apparate home - apparently Bill and Ron had to pick them up in the Weasley family car, flying them back to London in the dead of night, four Christmases ago. 

Yes, Hermione thought, her father would've liked him. She smiled as she turned to walk back towards the drawing room - he would've liked what became of her life very much. It was a nice thought - one to keep close. Hermione was getting better at that, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> for reference, [Aunt Dottie.](https://www.sothebys.com/en/buy/auction/2019/victorian-pre-raphaelite-and-british-impressionist-art/william-powell-frith-r-a-juliet-o-that-i-were-a)
> 
> Meilan_Firaga - what a lovely idea about Christmas Eve books! I had a great time with this, and I hope you liked it. The thing about "the book flood" in Iceland is real, by the way, to anyone wondering - [it's called Jólabókaflóð.](https://www.readitforward.com/essay/article/what-jolabokaflod-means-to-me/)


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